


A Sparrow, Caged

by primalrage



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Geisha, Alternate Universe - No Overwatch, Crossdressing, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Hanamura (Overwatch), Human Genji Shimada, Japan, Japanese Culture, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Robot/Human Relationships, Sorry Not Sorry, Unrequited Love, Wire Play, this fic is high key self-indulgent trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19055836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primalrage/pseuds/primalrage
Summary: In an alternate universe, the most successful geisha in all of Hanamura, Suzume (whose name means Sparrow) - is secretly a man named Genji Shimada. When he connects with a visiting Omnic monk named Zenyatta, his two conflicting identities become an obstacle that could prevent him from following his heart.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This honestly started as a joke, sort of a challenge as to how weird of an AU I could actually write. It is based on information I learned from reading "Geisha, A Life" by Mineko Iwasaki (she is one of the most famous geisha of all time, and the book is her autobiography - if you enjoy this fic, I highly recommend checking it out!)
> 
> Genji is a bit OOC in this, but in an AU so dramatically different from the source material, I think that may be a little inevitable. Plus, this wasn't beta read at all and was only edited roughly, so it's probably not my best work, but I still think it's pretty entertaining as a story, and I really hope you like it despite its flaws! Please, everyone, leave me comments on your opinions, or comments with requests for other fics, or just comments about anything. Your comments on my previous fics have been so uplifting and wonderful. Thanks to all of you!

****A question that I am often asked is why I chose Suzume for my geisha name.

Suzume, the sparrow. In Japan, these small songbirds are a popular symbol in folklore, art, and literature. They are associated with honor, thought to be obsessed with it. But this connotation suits my older brother, Hanzo, better than it suits me. He cares about honor so much, in fact, that I would joke with him that there was none left over for me to care about myself. No. Honor had nothing to do with my choice.

There is a popular fairy tale in Japan, called _Shita-kiri Suzume,_ or The Cut-Tongue Sparrow. In the story, a man finds an injured sparrow and brings it home to nurse it back to health. He was a poor man, and his wife grew angry about the food he wasted on the bird. One day, while the husband was out working, she decided not to feed it. The starving bird found some food left on the counter and ate it all. When the wife discovered this, she flew into a fit of rage, cut the bird's tongue out, and threw the animal out of the house. The man returned that evening and was disgusted by what his wife had done to the pitiful creature. He went out to search all over for the bird, eventually returning to the exact spot where he had found it. There, the bird was, but it revealed itself to be a magical sparrow, and it offered him a gift – either a large basket or a small one, and whatever the basket contained. The sparrow warned him that whichever basket he chose, the man must not open it until he got home. He was an older man and wasn't sure he could make the long walk back with the big basket, so he chose the small one. As he had been told, he carried it all the way to his house before opening it. Inside were priceless treasures. The man and his wife would never go wanting again. However, his greedy wife was furious that he hadn't taken the large basket, assuming it must be worth even more. She sneaked out to confront the sparrow, and it gave her the basket willingly with the same instructions. She would not listen, though. She stole a peek into the basket, only to find it full of venomous snakes which instantly bit and killed her.

The story has a good moral, but in my youth, I cared almost nothing for morals. In fact, until recently, of the two characters, I have always been more like the wife than the husband. So this fairy tale was still not the reason that I picked Suzume for my name.

The real reason that I chose this name, although I tell this to no one, is because of my father. He always called me his sparrow.

My father was descended from the samurai lords who had historically ruled over the village of Hanamura. He was a wealthy man, even lived in his ancestral Hanamura Castle, but he did not live by the codes of honor like his forefathers. He invested his money in corrupt ventures and was a cold, distant man. One of his pastimes was to visit the geisha district – _hanamachi –_ of Hanamura.

Hanamura was built high in the mountains, a strategic placement that allowed it to be better defended against invaders. Similarly, the _hanamachi_ was built strategically in the cliffs beneath the grounds of Hanamura Castle, so that in spring and fall, the cherry blossoms and maple leaves fell upon it like rain, carried by the wind from the trees in the castle's gardens. Due to this, Hanamura's _hanamachi_ became one of the most renowned in all of Japan. Only Gion itself, in Kyoto, could rival it.

There, my father sometimes spent three or four nights a week at _ochaya –_ tea houses – where he would be entertained by some of the best geisha in the world. One of whom was my mother.

When my mother became pregnant with my brother, the two of them married to save face. A respectable geisha did not sleep with a patron, so this was the only option she had, or else her career would be ruined. It was a beneficial arrangement for the both of them. Using my father's money, she was able to buy and open up her own _okiya,_ which is a home where geisha live during their career. _Ochaya_ make arrangements through the _okiya_ to hire geisha for events. The head of an _okiya_ is responsible for the careers of every geisha who steps through the door. My mother was wise, resourceful, and had connections all over the country thanks to her reputation as a dancer. Having her own _okiya_ transformed her into an entrepreneur and gave her great wealth of her own. As for my father? He got his first son, Hanzo, who would become heir to his empire. It was all that he had ever wanted.

They had a couple of years of happiness, married but living totally separate lives from one another, when my mother became pregnant a second time. They both hoped for a girl, who would grow up at the _okiya_ and eventually take over in my mother's footsteps.

Instead, they got me.

An _okiya_ is no place for a boy. Not even male servants are allowed inside of most _okiya,_ although some may hire men to help dress the girls in their heavy kimono and obi. These dressers are well-respected in the community, and form close bonds with the girls. My mother considered training me for this job, but she was too prideful to watch her son become someone like this, while she helped the daughters of lesser parentage become strong businesswomen like herself. So she made the decision to raise me as a geisha. It caused quite an uproar in the community, but she pointed out cases long ago where, historically, geisha were men. Besides, it was her _okiya_ and she could do what she wanted. Her reputation and relationship with her patrons was strong enough that, if an _ochaya_ were to refuse to do business with her, they would lose important customers themselves.

I remember little about my mother. All that I know about her is in the context of her work as a geisha, but I know nothing about how she was as a person or what kind of parent she was. I know that she was a talented shamisen player, and that she was the best dancer of her time. Every spring, when the local theater cast geisha in seasonal performances, she was always given the lead role. I know that her _okiya_ employed the most expensive, most skillful geisha in the district, and boasted one of the largest private collections of kimono in the entire world. Important men and women from all over came to Hanamura to be entertained by her, and if not by her, then by one of the girls whose careers she managed. She was showered in priceless, extravagant gifts from patrons and fans. I remember this all vividly. But do I remember if she was kind, or if she was proud of me, or if she ever showed me love? No. While most children were taught to ride a bike or tie their shoes or to pray, I was taught how to pick a proper kimono for each season, how to apply the white cream we use for the foundation of our makeup, how to play a shamisen, how to bow... and many other things. She was a relentless teacher.

She died when I was still a child. I inherited everything, and the woman who had trained her, whom everyone called Auntie, became responsible for me and the _okiya_. She was already managing a successful _okiya_ of her own but didn't let that stop her from stepping up as my guardian and growing wealthy off of the additional income from my mother's _okiya._

I recall many more details about my father than my mother, despite the fact that he refused to publicly acknowledge me from the moment of my birth. He had not wanted to be responsible for another child, but a girl would have been acceptable, because she could have been left with my mother in the _okiya_. He saw me as somehow a threat to Hanzo's position as his heir. It was not just me he turned his back on, but my mother, too, as though my gender had somehow been her fault. So while I trained in the art of entertaining as a geisha, my brother was taught business and literature and history, and he was molded into a likeness of our father, and educated on how to lead men and handle money. As children, we did not even know each other's names.

Growing up as a future geisha was unusual. On top of attending school like a normal boy, I also spent evenings and weekends studying dance, musical instruments, flower arrangement, and tea ceremony. I enjoyed playing music on the taiko drums, and I had a good aesthetic for flower arrangement, but I lacked the elegance and patience and discipline for tea ceremony or dance. Auntie never gave up on me, though, because I had a real knack for connecting with people. I made friends easily. I made people laugh. I was the center of attention when I entered a room. These are things one must be born with to become a great geisha; it is nearly impossible to teach them to someone who isn't a natural. Pouring sake and looking elegant are only a portion of a geisha's job. What we _really_ do is entertain.

At some point in my childhood, my father figured out my hectic schedule. To this day, I don't know how. Perhaps he had connections at the schools I attended, or maybe he had hired someone to follow me. He certainly could afford something as ridiculous as that. While I had never seen him before, he shared my last name and carried around photographs of my mother, including one from their wedding, so I never doubted whom he was. He would corner me in the street, or meet me after one of my many practices, and then he would take me for ice cream or to my favorite ramen shop. He asked me to keep these meetings secret, and I always did, because while my mother and then Auntie were both harsh, he spoiled and adored me. He played games with me in the arcade, or took me to movies, and generally just treated me like a normal boy. He was gentle and kind. He asked about my studies, encouraged me, and _always_ called me his sparrow.

I learned, many years later, that as loving as he was to me, he was absolutely heartless towards my brother. The closer we became, the more distant he was with Hanzo. If I had known, I never would have chosen Suzume, Sparrow, for my name. But I had no idea, and, in fact, had only the vaguest notion that a brother somewhere actually existed. So after I graduated junior high school, when Auntie felt I was ready to debut as a _maiko_ – a geisha in training – I picked Suzume for my new name. As a _maiko_ , I continued my studies as before, but with the added pressure of attending events alongside real geisha in order to create relationships with _ochaya_ and potential future customers. During this time, I often got three hours of sleep a night – I woke at dawn to do my chores before school started, and then often stayed out at events until well past midnight. I had no time to spend with my father anymore. So the name, Suzume, was my way of staying close to him, even when our visits together stopped completely.

Then my father died, and life was never the same.

When my mother died, life had largely pushed on in the same way. Auntie forced me to continue my lessons and training, and the hole left by my mother's absence was insignificant. But my father's death left Hanzo an orphan, one with many adult enemies who claimed ownership of his newly inherited wealth. His only family left was me.

I hadn't known it at the time, but Auntie had been praying daily for a way to help my mother's _okiya –_ now mine – that would prevent it from going out of business. She was cunning and brilliant, but lacked the time, money, and energy to ruin two _okiya_. When I was older, I could take some of the pressure off her shoulders, but considering at the time I had not even debuted as a full geisha yet, there was little I could do to manage the careers of women twice my age. She saw my father's death as an answer to her prayers. She drew up my mother's will and, unbeknownst to me, went to court to gain guardianship over my brother and his vast inheritance. Her goal had simply been the money. She had not been prepared for how much of an asset Hanzo would otherwise be. From the day he moved in, he proved to be a true genius at finances, scheduling, and dealing with business relationships – all thanks to our father's tutelage. Within a year, Hanzo was running the _okiya_ on his own, even though he was still just a teenager.

Another young man in Hanzo's place would have never been able to keep his head on his shoulders. He was suddenly in charge of a handful of the most elegant and beautiful women in the country, if not the world. It would have been so easy – even expected – for him to abuse his power over them. No one would have blamed him for taking advantage of any one of the geisha, yet he never did. I even slept with many of the lesser geisha in our district, loose women who failed to see how our job was any different from prostitution – although I admit that I never, not even once, touched a sister from my own _okiya_ or Auntie's _okiya_ up the street. But Hanzo treated the _okiya_ like a business and the girls like employees, and under his guidance, the _okiya_ excelled.

As the only other male in this world of educated, independent, gorgeous women, naturally I wanted us to be close. Hanzo was always aloof and cold towards me, though; towards everyone, really. He made it very clear to everyone that he was from outside of the _hanamachi_ , and that he would have preferred his path never cross with ours.

It was so strange, so discover how dysfunctional Hanzo was in everything outside of business. My father had single-handedly saved me from losing myself in the world of geisha. He had provided me glimpses of a normal childhood – junkfood and video games and cartoons and parental support – things that prevented Suzume from taking over my character entirely. I believe my mother and my Auntie would not have minded if Genji were to die and let Suzume flourish. But my father fought to keep Genji alive. Meanwhile, he had failed to do so with Hanzo so terribly. Finally getting to know my brother just absolutely broke my heart.

So, the name Suzume became a reminder that I am separate from my geisha identity, but, even so, I must keep my true self, Genji, very secret from the rest of the world, so that my brother never learns the injustice he was dealt – that the man who crushed his soul was the same one to save mine.

 


	2. A Sparrow, Caged

The year that my life changed began with Auntie falling ill. She had always had problems with her stomach, but the pain grew so severe that she suddenly had to be bedridden shortly after the new year. By the time the flowers bloomed in spring, she was dead. The entire _hanamachi_ mourned her – her _okiya_ and ours, all the _ochaya_ she did business with, and every geisha or _maiko_ who gave a damn about their public reputation. Customers flooded her _okiya_ with gifts – kimono, hair ornaments, jewelry, wall scrolls, tea bowls. And since she had shocked the entire _hanamachi_ by naming Hanzo as her heir, our combined wealth increased each time a new package was delivered. It was a good time for the Shimada Okiya, but a sad time for me.

Hanzo's goal was to finish training and managing her existing geisha, then to merge everything of hers to our _okiya_ and do something else with the land. He could sell it for a huge profit, since land in Hanamura had become expensive, or he could even open an _ochaya_ of his own. It would be many months, if not years, before he could do anything like that, though. Auntie's _okiya_ was larger than our own. She managed five geisha and was beginning the careers of two young _maiko,_ whereas we had one _maiko_ , and, aside from me (the most senior) only two younger geisha. The decision was made to move the _maiko_ to our _okiya_ , but that still left the five older girls to deal with. Until their debts to the okiya had been repaid – for their boarding, their lessons, their makeup and wigs and kimono – the girls could not walk away with their heads held high and their reputations intact. Hanzo could have chosen to forget their debts, but he was too much of a businessman for that, and so he divided his attention between the two _okiya_ for the time being.

That summer was sweltering and long, with Hanzo busier than ever and spending more time away. It was a blessing to me. For the first time in my life, I could be lazy. I spent most of my nights entertaining at the wildest parties with my favorite customers. A geisha is not to drink on the job, even while playing drinking games with guests, but, that summer, I certainly did. None of the people I entertained had any idea that, beneath the makeup of Suzume, my true identity was Genji, so I had to be careful not to get so drunk that my secret slipped out. Still, I joined the drinking games, and I allowed myself to get rowdy with customers. If Hanzo ever noticed my increasingly full schedule (which I'm sure he did) then he must have attributed it to pity following Auntie's death.

I also stopped attending my dance lessons.

As I've mentioned, dance is not my strong suit. I always got roles in theatrical productions, because (naturally) I was good at playing the male parts. In geisha dances, all roles are played by women, but for obvious reasons, Suzume was just _so_ convincing as a man on stage. If it had been my choice though, even those roles I would have turned down. Unlike my mother, I _hated_ dancing. I always moved too fast, and, then, when chided by my teacher, too slow. It was one skill I had never been able to master, no matter how many times I attempted it. So, as soon as Hanzo was looking the other way, I dropped it entirely.

That summer was one of the greatest seasons of my life. All the best parties, no dance practice, and, sometimes, if I thought I could get away with it, I slipped out of the kimono and makeup and wig of Suzume and into jeans and a t-shirt and, for the first time in my life, spent nights and weekends as myself. I went to the arcade, like I had with my father as a child, or I took the train into Tokyo and got wasted at bars and woke up in love hotels with women whose names I never learned. Genji flourished that summer.

Because of the season's unusually high temperatures, the leaves fell upon our _hanamachi_ late that year. We all walked around with our heads tilted up, watching the treetops uphill, but they stubbornly stayed green until very late in the year. Then, one morning, I woke to find the roofs and gardens and streets all blanketed in a layer of crimsons and russets and golds. The leaves had fallen. Autumn was truly upon us.

Hanzo was home, at the Shimada Okiya, that day. When I went downstairs to join him and the other girls for breakfast – there was a single room on the upper floor of the house, and I, the senior geisha at our _okiya_ , got it to myself while everyone else slept in rooms on the ground floor – he had just instructed two of our maids to clean the dead leaves from our garden, collect them off the surface of our koi pond, and sweep our front steps. I sat down at his right side, and the geisha greeted me in unison, “Good morning, big sister!”

While most – if not all – of the geisha in Hanamura knew I was a man, they kept the knowledge to themselves. So I was still called big sister, at least under my own roof. Once, attending a party early in my training as a _maiko_ , a jealous geisha from a rival _okiya_ let slip to a patron that I was a boy in disguise. Furious, Auntie had reached out to her connections at every _ochaya_ in Hanamura and had learned of every single event the girl was invited to entertain at. Auntie had sent over one of her geisha to each of those events, with the instructions to make the offending girl look like a fool at every possible opportunity. In this way, Auntie tormented the girl for months and months, eventually utterly ruining her reputation until she had been forced to retire early in shame. Meanwhile, Auntie had also made sure to place me at the next event that the patron attended. She had used makeup to make my cheeks especially pink, my lips especially full, and had picked out a particularly feminine kimono in the pale pink of newly blossoming cherry flowers. She had taught me to act distraught over the hurtful rumor, had shown me to let slips of my kimono show flashes of slender ankle or neck. I had convinced the patron that I was a girl so successfully that even now, well into my adulthood, he remained one of my most loyal customers.

No one _ever_ mentioned my gender again. The other girl's ruin had gone down in _hanamachi_ history.

“Good morning,” I said, but before I could even so much as reach for my chopsticks, Hanzo went straight to business.

“I have just learned of an important banquet tonight which you absolutely must attend,” he told me.

“ _What_?” I asked, furrowing my brow, “I don't accept last minute invitations.”

As one of the most senior geisha, and by far one of the most successful, the only way to book me for an event was to make the request many months in advance. In fact, some seasons, my schedule was booked _years_ in advance. Otherwise, the most that anyone could hope for was a cancellation of a prior engagement, but since the _ochaya_ paid me a down payment in advance, I could count on my fingers the times that a cancellation had happened since my collar-turning ceremony (when a _maiko_ graduates to being a geisha.) Besides, I was to attend a party hosted by the chairman of a soft drink company. He was a good customer of mine, as close as I could consider a friend as possible, and I had been looking forward to seeing him for months. His parties were always wild, and a little bit of Genji could come out through the mask of Suzume without harming my reputation.

“You do tonight,” Hanzo argued, “I've already called your customers and worked out an arrangement with them.”

“What could possibly be so important?” I asked.

In response, Hanzo handed me a local newspaper. My answer was right on the front page. Apparently the United Nations had a council of Omnic-Human Relations, something I was previously unaware of, and they were sending delegates, accompanied by civil rights leaders, on a tour of Asia. Next stop? Hanamura.

I didn't dislike Omnics. In fact, I supposed they deserved rights just as much as anyone else did. But I didn't know a single Omnic. One had never stepped foot in Hanamura before, to my knowledge. So I simply didn't _care_ about any prejudice or hate they might face. I was privileged enough to believe that their plight didn't matter to me. It didn't make sense that this was important enough for me to cancel my engagements over.

“They are giving speeches at the temple all weekend,” Hanzo told me. Hanamura Castle, and its adjoining temple, had belonged to my father's family for generations. After his death, Hanzo had sold it all, making a fortune, and it had been opened to the public as a tourist destination of historical importance. “And this evening, all of the best geisha were requested to entertain at their dinner party. This is an opportunity you cannot turn down. It means international exposure. Your name or photograph could end up in magazines and newspapers across the world.”

All I could do was laugh. “Omnics? At a dinner party? They don't even eat or drink! Will I be entertaining at children's birthday parties next?”

The girls giggled nervously with me, but Hanzo shot us all a look so vicious that it stole the smiles from our faces. “If you cannot treat these customers with respect, Genji, then tell me right now! Between our _okiya_ and Auntie's, I have nearly a dozen young women far more deserving of this opportunity than you. You are a lazy brat! Don't think I haven't noticed your income and performance slipping! If your continue on this path, I will throw you out on the street!”

“Calm down,” I muttered, “I was only joking.” I knew better than to ignore his threat. Brother or not, Hanzo put business before everything else.

“Respecting our customers is not a joke, Genji. I would send out a _maiko_ before I would allow you to drag our name through the dirt.”

We fought about everything, but I could tell that this time I had really struck a nerve. “Okay, okay,” I sighed, “Have a little faith in me, brother!”

“I have _no_ faith in you,” he snarled, “Mark my words. If you mess up this opportunity tonight, then I will end your career and kick you out. Do not take my threat lightly.”

* * *

 

One of my secrets to success was that, before any event, I researched every important guest who would be there. If a politician was going to be in attendance, then I made sure to memorize all of their political stances so that I could pretend to agree with them. If the guest was a celebrity, I would study their body of work, in order to seem like a devoted fan. Even if it was just a wealthy businessman, then I could look into his company and the products or services they provided. I decided that, for this event, my best way to research was to go and see the speeches for myself.

I went as Genji, because it was crucial that no one recognized me.

I called a cab to take me up the mountain to Hanamura Castle and its adjoining temple. The driver had to stop and let me out a block away, because the streets around the temple were thronged with people. There were more people than I had ever seen in Hanamura, and not all of them were even Japanese. In fact, besides the huge number of foreign tourists, there were dozens upon dozens, maybe even hundreds, of Omnics. I had never been close to a single Omnic in person, so suddenly weaving through crowds of them as I made my way to the temple was overwhelming. Their metal bodies caught the sunlight, nearly blinding me. Many of them had humanoid faceplates, but some had no visible eyes, and that made me uneasy as I moved among them. Could they see how I gawked? Really, though, I had no idea if they even saw the same way that humans did. Maybe they all had x-ray vision or something? Could I ever fool them as Suzume if they could see through my clothes?

But for every unusual, robotic thing I noticed about them, I saw a handful of surprisingly human behaviors. They used hand gestures and body language while talking. They apologized when our shoulders were jostled together by the flow of the crowd. They held up cellphones over their heads to take selfies. Many of them even dressed in human ways, going so far as to wear shoes on their metal feet. Some of the female Omnics had cute magnets clipped to their bodies like jewelry. I watched groups of them chatting, laughing, even a trio bickering over a map as they tried to locate the train station. It was astonishing how _alive_ they seemed! Still, I struggled to get over the expressionless faces.

Finally, I reached the vast wooden gates to the temple. I understood that this was connected to my ancestry. In another situation, I might have even been raised on these grounds. However, I had never stepped foot in the temple or castle, not even once. My father, as much as he had spoiled me in private, had made it abundantly clear that I was not and never would be welcome there. I had known if he caught me sneaking around, it would have ruined my relationship with him. So I had stayed away, and, honestly, my curiosity about the castle and temple had been minimal. It seemed like a world away from the _hanamachi._

I would have liked to look around the place, but there were too many people. In the center of the temple was a raised wooden structure, under which hung a tremendous bronze bell. Standing before the bell - if I stood on tiptoe I could just make him out over the heads of the crowd - was the speaker. He was a tall, slim Omnic in an elegant ivory robe. His body reflected the flashes of countless cameras. I could hear him speaking, but I couldn't make out a word he said over the cheers. Just as soon as I caught my glimpse of him, so majestic at the center of the temple, someone in the crowd began to wave an oversized handwritten sign that totally blocked my view. I backed off then. I wasn't sure what I had expected, but it was nothing like this, with an audience so large and exuberant. I was being shoved in all directions. I couldn't even think over the volume of the shouts and cries. This seemed more like a festival than some United Nations stunt. I desperately wanted to be away from there, so I let the surging crowd push me back away from the temple.

The roads were lined with vendors who had set up stalls to sell everything from t-shirts to ice cream. I stopped at one to buy a roasted sweet potato, which was served to me wrapped in newspaper pages. The weather was only just getting cool enough to enjoy one of these seasonal treats. I ducked into an alley off the main road, sitting in the shade of a vending machine. As I folded the paper down to take my first steaming bite, I saw the face of the monk who had been speaking to the crowd. Mondatta. That was what the paper said his name was. I tried to ignore his inhuman face judging me from the wrinkled, upside-down photograph as I chewed.

I felt thoughtful, but, strangely, the thoughts wouldn't settle into anything coherent that could help me make up my mind. I wasn't afraid of being kicked out of the _okiya_. I had enough sense to treat an Omnic like I would a regular customer. I might make jokes in casual company, but once I put on my wig and makeup, it was all business. However, I still had this unsettling feeling of being so unprepared. Neither Genji nor Suzume ever settled for anything short of the best – I wanted to make a lasting impression on everyone tonight. But how? I took another mouthful of sweet potato, thinking that at least I had seen them up close. This trip up to the temple hadn't been a total waste of the day.

I spent several minutes sitting there, just eating and watching the crowds move down the street. There was enough time left to go back home and search my questions on the internet. Surely I wasn't the only person wondering how to host a party with Omnics in attendance. And if my search told me nothing, then maybe I could just look up Mondatta and educate myself on what he was preaching. I tossed my trash into a nearby recycling bin and pulled myself to my feet, brushing my hands on my jeans.

I took a single step out of the alley and collided with one of them. It was almost like being hit by a slow-moving car. His body was heavy enough to knock me down on the sidewalk. He had been walking a path perpendicular to mine, and I had stepped out directly in front of him. We both stammered our apologies, and he asked if I was okay; it was a moment so human that it felt strange to accept the robotic hand he offered. He pulled me up so effortlessly, like my weight was insignificant to him.

“Sorry,” I said in English, unsure if he would know Japanese. I was embarrassed that I had been so lost in my thoughts, “I wasn't paying attention...”

“No need to apologize, my brother. I am as much at fault as you,” he said. His voice had a pleasant lilt, with a tinny, mechanical hum to each syllable.

I just smiled and nodded. I used this as an opportunity to boldly study him. He looked similar to Mondatta. Were there models of Omnics? If so, those two must have been nearly the same model. He was just as tall and slim, with the same featureless chrome face. There were no eyes to meet, only slits where eyes should be. Unlike Mondatta in his resplendent white robe, this one was dressed more humbly, in the pants and sandals of a monk, but with an exposed torso. It made me shiver to see the pistons in his hips and shoulders. On his brow were nine round, little blue-white lights arranged in rows of threes. Around his neck, he wore a chain of golden mala beads, each larger than a man's fist, but as I stared, I noticed it wasn't a necklace at all. The gigantic beads were not connected to each other, but, instead, hovered in a ring around his head, floating clockwise very slowly.

It was _cool_.

The longer I stared, the more details I noticed. My eyes took everything in hungrily. I saw that, while the majority of his body was the palest silver, he had gold-plated accents, such as his mouthpiece. He glistened in the sun, so at first he had looked shiny and new, but now I found imperfections. His arms shone more dully, their finish faded by use, and there were many scuffs and shallow dents in his frame. His joints were worn down, too. Did this hurt him, I wondered? Followed by another internal question – did Omnics feel pain at all?

Before I even understood what I was doing, before I could even stop myself, I reached out to brush a finger along a chip in his chest plate.

A shiver passed through him from head to toe, and he recoiled from me, not by stepping away but by jolting backwards _into_ the air, his feet drawing up beneath him. He _hovered_ a few inches above the sidewalk, and his mala beads spun much faster around him. Omnics could _fly?_ I had no idea. I must have been openly gawking at him, until I realized what I had just done.

“ _Nante kotta_!” I gasped, horrified by my audacity, “Please, excuse me! I don't know what I was thinking! I didn't mean to hurt you!”

I bowed low at the waist, feeling my cheeks flush with shame. The Omnic put a hand on my shoulder and, very gently, tilted me back upright. “You didn't hurt me,” he said, “I was merely startled.”

“I'm so sorry. Please forgive me,” I spluttered, twice as panicked because he was incapable of making expressions. Was he furious? Disgusted? I had no clue. “N-normally I wouldn't have... I've never...”

“Touched a stranger?” he suggested. There was undeniable amusement to his voice, and my face burned even redder; at least he wasn't angry.

“I've never... met an Omnic before,” I admitted, “But I don't normally go around touching strangers, either.”

We laughed together, a little nervously, and then he lowered his feet back to the ground. His halo of spinning mala relaxed back around his shoulders. “Never? Well, it is especially meaningful to us that you have come out today, to hear our message of education and understanding.”

We? I glanced around, expecting to see that he was accompanied by a friend. It took a second or two before understanding dawned on me. “Oh! You must be touring with Mondatta?”

“He is my teacher, and my dearest friend.”

What amazing luck I had! This Omnic before me knew Mondatta well, or so he said, and if I could question him, then I would be more prepared to entertain Mondatta than anyone else at that banquet that night! “Wow, a friend of Mondatta!” I gasped, as though I really cared, “It's an honor to meet you. My name is Genji.”

“I am Zenyatta,” he said, “the honor is all mine.”

“Zenyatta-san, will you be missed if I keep you for a moment?” I asked, “I have so many questions about your order, and your teacher, and Omnics in general.”

“Only if you simply call me Zenyatta,” he replied, and I heard, from within him, a whirring as his machinations sped up in happiness, like the purr of a content cat.

We couldn't just hover in front of that alley, but where to go? I knew that Omnics did not eat, so I couldn't treat him to lunch. I also couldn't take him anywhere near the _hanamachi_ , for fear of being recognized. So I brought him to my favorite place in Hanamura, even if it was a bit unconventional to find a monk there – the arcade.

Probably because of the event drawing huge crowds outside, the arcade was much busier than it usually was on a weekday, and many of those who packed into the place were tourists and Omnics. It made the place feel lively, and the cacophony from the machines was so loud that we could hardly speak to each other. Perhaps this hadn't been a good decision at all? But Zenyatta was excited to be here. Since I had noticed that muffled, gentle sound of his internal machinations, I had paid close attention to the way he conveyed his mood. I suppose this was a habit of mine from entertaining people for so long. I had to pay attention to even the subtlest reaction to my words, so that I knew the effect I was having on customers. Zenyatta had no facial expressions to read, no eyes to meet, no mouth to study for smiles or frowns, but there were other clues. And now, weaving through the games and players, I noticed his head whipping around in all directions to take everything in, the brightness of the lights in his forehead, and the sound – only barely audible over all of the noise if I leaned in very close – of something inside of him working at increased speed and strength because of his happiness.

If I could go back in time, to a few hours ago, and tell the Genji of that morning all that I had learned so far in Zenyatta's company, I probably would have laughed at myself. They were just robots! Vacuum cleaners with artificial intelligence could be just as impressive. I could have a whole conversation with the programmed assistant built into my phone, but, in my previous opinion, that didn't make her a person any more than an Omnic was. How stupid I had been, just earlier that day! A whole life wasted in ignorance! Zenyatta was so much more than a vacuum cleaner, or a feature on my phone. Just ten minutes, and he had convinced me otherwise. The way he had gone out of his way to hold open the door for everyone entering and exiting the arcade behind us, the way he kept getting distracted by the screens of flashing lights and had to be encouraged on like a child, perhaps it wasn't _human_ necessarily, but it was so _alive_ and endearing.

“Here,” I said, stopping in front of a UFO catcher that wasn't being used, “In exchange for answering my questions, I'll win you a prize.” The machine was stuffed with plushes that were meant to be knocked into the prize drop. As a kid, I spent hours with my father hypnotized in front of UFO catchers. I had once been so good at these. I pulled a five hundred yen coin from my pocket and slipped it into the machine. "Where should I start?” I wondered aloud to myself as I guided the UFO arm across the machine, “I'm having a dinner party tonight, and I know that at least one Omnic will be there. How can I be a good host? I know you don't eat or drink.”

He was watching me position the claw, so enthralled he nearly forgot to answer. “That's not entirely true,” he said, “Omnics can drink oil. Even if your guest does not partake, he or she will be impressed that you knew enough to offer.”

Oil... like for a car? I didn't even know where one might buy oil in Hanamura; no one at the _okiya_ drove. “Is there a specific, uh, brand? _Damn!”_ The claw had knocked the plush onto its side, but hadn't carried it any closer to the prize drop. Oh, well. I had five more tries.

He listed off some popular brands and suggested places to find them, although we both agreed that Hanamura was too rural to have a good selection. The convenient stores, he assured me, should at least have _something._

My next question was mortifying to ask, especially of a monk. I kept my eyes firmly on the game, pretending to be focused on positioning the arm. “I also need to know if Omnics... feel pleasure?” When he didn't immediately answer, my face went red. The claw dropped, missing the plush I had been aiming for by several inches. “I mean, if I was trying to flirt with an Omnic, would I... would he... would it _work_?”

He laughed, but it was a harmless sound. I could tell he was not mocking me with his laughter. “Unfortunately, you are asking the wrong Omnic,” he said, “I know nothing about flirting. But we do feel pleasure. We are built with millions of sensors that we use to experience the world just as you do.”

“So if I brush my hand against his, or if I let our thighs just lightly touch beneath the table?” These were techniques I used to enthrall my human patrons, seemingly accidental contact that kept them on edge, hoping for more.

Perhaps it was tasteless of me to even think of using this on a monk? I, as Genji, preferred the lewd and rowdy patrons. They threw the best parties, and they came to the _ochaya_ most frequently. I made a lot of money off of them in small bursts, but they were fickle. Their preference in women changed with the season, it seemed. As soon as another girl caught their attentions, I meant nothing to them. So Suzume preferred patrons with wholesome intentions, men who were harder to shake, men who fought hard to keep their desires in check. Because once I had made an impression on this kind of patron, they were wrapped around my finger for life. My most expensive gifts were not from the men who tried to see flashes of leg from the hem of my kimono or who tried drunkenly to kiss me when I led them to the _ochaya_ toilet. No, I made more money and gained more fame by melting the cool hearts of patrons who wouldn't think of touching me in their wildest dreams, but who still felt an uncomfortable, distant stirring within themselves whenever a touch might accidentally occur.

“It sounds as though you have an exciting night ahead of you,” Zenyatta said, and I could hear the amused humming from him, louder now than before.

I gripped the joystick so hard that my knuckles went white. On this third attempt, the claw had carried the plush nearly all the way to the prize drop, only to lose its grasp right at the edge. I swore, but it didn't matter – the next try would have it for sure.

 _Would it work on you?_ I wanted to ask. But I clenched my teeth, shutting my mouth. He was probably disgusted by me, honestly. He struck me as chaste, pure, gentle. The idea of me pressing my thigh to the leg of an Omnic in a suggestive way probably made him lose all respect for me. I wished I hadn't asked.

I slapped my palm down upon the button that dropped the claw. It caught the edge of the plush, pushing it over the edge, down into the prize drop. "Yes!" I cheered.

“You are good at this,” Zenyatta said. The happy whirring of his machinations was back as I handed him the prize – a stuffed Pachimari. He squeezed the toy in his hands and it made a little squeak. While he had no mouth, I could tell that he would be smiling if he did.

“I have two more plays,” I told him, “You should try to win one.”

But Zenyatta proved to be hopeless at it! He was absolutely awful! My last to turns became another 500 yen coin fed into the machine, and another. Eventually, I suggested we start smaller. We found another UFO catcher, this one full of keychains. I knew the loops and packaging made them easier to scoop up, but even these took another 1,000 of my yen before he managed to drag a single one of them to the prize drop. It was a plastic leek, and I couldn't hep but laugh at how much money I had just spent on a keychain of a leek.

I pulled the last of my 100 and 500 yen coins from my pocket, and we wasted them together. We played a fighting game and he surprised me by totally kicking my ass. I could barely get a single hit on his character. Then, we moved on to a rhythm game, where he helped me cheat by controlling half of the buttons. I admit – time flew by, and I forgot to ask him even a single one of my dozens and dozens of questions. I was so used to being around overworked people with nothing but reputation and finances on their mind, myself included, that it was refreshing to spend those moments with Zenyatta. Being in his company was effortless. He didn't care if my clothes were in season, or if my teeth showed when I smiled, or if I laughed too loud, or if I slouched.

When we were interrupted by the ringing cellphone in my back pocket, I was shocked to see that we had spent close to three hours together, and that Hanzo had been texting me to come home for the past thirty minutes. If I didn't return to the _okiya_ right away, then there would be no time for me to transform into Suzume before the banquet.

“I'm so sorry! I have to go! I lost track of the time!” I hurried to the exit, using an app on my phone to summon a ride to the front of the arcade. Zenyatta stood with me while I waited for the car to come, and I regretted wasting so much of the day. I still knew so little. “Thank you for helping me, Zenyatta.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he said, “For a lovely time. Here. I would like you to have this.” He handed me the keychain.

My whole life, I had been receiving priceless gifts, things rare enough that they could have belonged in a museum. Vintage, one-of-a-kind, hand-dyed kimono. Jewelry that cost the average man's salary – pearls and jade and diamonds and gemstones of every color of the rainbow set into hair ornaments and necklaces and earrings and brooches. Woodblock prints done by classic masters, scrolls of calligraphy from the hand of poets and imperial scholars from centuries ago. All of those things were worthless junk compared to the keychain that Zenyatta gifted me. It was a treasure like no other. I slipped it into my pocket, and the weight of it inside my pocket stole my words away. My ride had pulled up, and all I could do was bow a goodbye to him, knowing in my heavy heart that I would never see him again.

* * *

 

My brother was angry with me for being late, and even my excuse that I had been doing research was not good enough for him. The other girls had picked out their kimono and were being dressed already. I would now have to rush.

Behind our _okiya_ , at the very rear of our garden, was a shed where we stored our vast collection of kimono. They were all one-of-a-kind, and we owned more than any other _okiya_ that I knew of. Hanzo, who had not grown up in this world, always let us pick our own kimono and obi for the night; he paid little attention to seasonal colors or motifs. I, however, had been brought up to obsess over these details, because picking something inappropriate made geisha look like fools.

That evening, in particular, there was a lot of pressure on me to pick out the perfect outfit. Many of our nicest kimono were boldly colored, and therefor only suited for _maiko_ to wear, so I skipped past all of those. I also did not want to wear a kimono with a pattern that was too obvious. Everyone would be wearing maple leaves, chrysanthemums, bellflower... these motifs were too cliched.

But then I found the perfect one. It was a rich chocolate brown, with a motif of sparrows flying through blades of ripe, golden rice. The symbolism was plainly seasonal enough that even a foreigner could recognize it was appropriate, without being an obvious choice. The shades were muted enough to be appropriate for my age, separating me from the youth and inexperience of the _maiko_ in their bright kimono. It wasn't likely that the other geisha would pick anything in a similar color scheme, because there were such important, international patrons tonight, but that just meant I would stand out from the crowd even further. And the sparrows would be my calling card. Everyone there would know my name. I selected a regal purple obi to pair with it and then headed upstairs to my room.

During the hour or so that we prepared for our parties each evening, the _okiya_ was always carefully controlled chaos. One handsomely paid dresser was responsible for helping us all into our very heavy kimono and obi. The _maiko_ gathered around me to watch as I applied my makeup, transforming from Genji to Suzume before their eyes. These _maiko_ were being trained by geisha who had once been _maiko_ under my training. While Hanzo had wanted me to take one of the abandoned _maiko_ from Auntie's _okiya_ under my wing, I had declined. I felt that time of my life was behind me. Still, these girls followed me like ducklings, and I felt like I was tripping over them as I tried to get ready. My makeup brushes were taken up by maids to be cleaned, and I helped the girls pick out their elaborate hair ornaments. As a geisha, I wore a wig, but the _maiko_ were required to have their real hair styled, and they wore over the top, bejeweled hairpins. 

Once we were dressed, our maids escorted us to the events. My destination was the oldest _ochaya_ in all of Hanamura. An event held there could cost five hundred thousand yen or more. It was essentially a vast mansion in the heart of the _hanamachi_ , everything from the entrance to the garden was traditional, and each room had been converted to a banquet hall. Because of its age and reputation, this _ochaya_ was unique in that it could pretty much summon any geisha or _maiko_ from any other event in the city, and the girl would be expected to drop her prior plans and head there. Even I was not successful or important enough to turn down an invitation to an event here, so I understood why Hanzo had been unable to decline. I came here often. The proprietress had a good relationship with my mother before her death. Every event here was highly secretive. It was often suggested that if you _were_ going to sleep with a customer, here was the only place in the whole _hanamachi_ where you could do it and no one would spread rumors about you afterward, because the _ochaya_ would cut ties with any girl who spoke ill of it in any way, even indirectly through gossip.

Entering the _ochaya_ , I was bowed in by maids who swept forward to take my _zori –_ the traditional shoes worn by a geisha. The proprietress and I greeted each other warmly, but we didn't waste time catching up. The party was already going on in the largest hall.

There is a very specific ritual a geisha follows when opening the sliding door and entering the room where a party is being held. We bow, we kneel, we close the door, we bow again. Our hands and feet move in specific positions. Everything is practiced and purposeful. Once I have completed the ritual, I let my eyes roam the room. The guests – and there were many of them, more than I could count upon scanning the faces - knelt on silk pillows arranged across the tatami, at traditional _zataku_ style tables made of handsome red lacquer. Most of the guests were human, but there were many Omnics seated among them, including the monk Mondatta himself. At Mondatta's side, I was stunned to see, was none other than Zenyatta. 

First, according to our intricate rituals, I greeted the other geisha and their _maiko._ I then introduced myself to the room. I'm not sure what I was doing or saying, really, because I was so shocked to see Zenyatta there that I could hardly function. I was trying to think of a way to go and sit beside him, because I wanted nothing more in the world at that moment than to spend more time in his company, but I couldn't think of an excuse to steal the guest of honor for myself. Not without making enemies among the room.

Thankfully, I was saved when a woman spoke up. She was a patron I had hosted many times, a member of the National Diet. “Suzume-san,” she said, “You speak fluent English, right? Why don't you go take a seat with our Shambali guests?” No one could argue with that suggestion. There was a translator at the party, but he was with the group from the United Nations, and he couldn't keep up with the handful of conversations at once.

I glided across the room, kneeling down opposite Mondatta and Zenyatta. There were other monks with them, but I admit, I hardly paid them any attention as the group introduced themselves to me. “Of course I know _your_ name, Mondatta-san,” I said playfully, when it was Mondatta's turn, “An important Omnic like yourself needs no introduction.”

My instinct was to pour sake, but, of course, they were Omnics. They had not even been provided with cups. “Oh, has no one offered you oil?” I asked, a little too loudly, so that my voice drew the attention of the party onto me.

My goal had been to shame the other geisha, _not_ the proprietress of the _ochaya._ It would have been a grave mistake to make her look foolish, when she was such a prominent figure in the _hanamachi._ So, on my way home from the arcade earlier, I had stopped at a convenient store to pick up oil, which I had then dropped off at the _ochaya_. This way, when I had waved a maid down and asked her to bring in oil, the product was there and had already been warmed. I wasn't sure if Omnics drank oil warm, but the sake tonight was being served warm, so I had asked her staff to warm the oil as they would the sake. I poured it, not just for the Shambali, but for the Omnics from the UN, as well. To my disappointment, the monks would not so much as taste the stuff, whereas the Omnics from the UN dove into their glasses immediately.

Still, though, I noticed the happiness emanating from Zenyatta, like the nearly-silent hiss of a running computer tower.

“Your name is Suzume?” Zenyatta asked.

I beamed at him, “Yes! It means Sparrow.”

I began to tell them the story of the Cut-Tongue Sparrow, but before I could get far into the tail, the first course of the meal was served. The _ochaya_ had no kitchen of its own, but ordered all of its food from the restaurant next door. This meal was in _kaiseki_ style, which meant small, very traditional plates served in courses between the ebb and flow of the party. The maids who brought the dishes out hesitated in front of the Omnics, but I stopped them and asked them to set the plates down anyway.

“Ah, these are pickled persimmons,” I said, gesturing at the plates, “See how they're cut into the shape of persimmon flowers? They're popular this season.” I showed them how one of the _maiko_ in the room, who had accompanied the older geisha who was training her, wore jeweled persimmons as ornaments in her hair. One of the geisha wore a cream-colored kimono colored with bursts of lilac and carmine in the shapes of persimmon leaves and persimmon flowers. The Shambali encourage me to sample the dish, which I normally would never do, but that night I complied, and I tried to explain the flavor in a way that might make sense to them. “It's a powerful taste. Sharp and staccato, like a jolt of electricity on your tongue.”

Each course continued this way. While the other geisha - and there were eight of them, most accompanied by _maiko_ – poured drinks, flirted, told jokes, and guided the gay mood of the evening, at my corner of the table, we were absorbed in our own world. The next course was _sanma_ , a seasonal fish, grilled with daikon and yuzu. I told them how _sanma_ was written with the kanji for autumn, and they asked me to show them what I meant. I called a maid and asked her to bring in parchment, ink, and a calligraphy brush. Once I had them, I dipped the brush into the ink and wrote the kanji for _sanma_ , then I broke down each stroke into its individual parts. Autumn. Fish. Sword-shape. After, I asked them with a teasing smile if anyone wanted the paper. The Shambali were too polite to fight over it, so I gave it to Zenyatta, allowing our fingers to touch as it transferred between our hands.

Next, there came a _matsutake_ soup, and I fish them out of the broth and tell the Shambali that they are the most expensive mushrooms in all of Japan. They ask me to describe the taste again for them, and they watch in rapture as I take the bowl from Mondatta's place and bring it to my lips. It isn't a simple task. “The flavor of the _matsutake_ is so understated,” I explained, “Like the sound of the wind. How it adds to the volume of the storm, but tends to be lost beneath the noise of thunder and rainfall. The chef has done a masterful job of using other flavors that don't overwhelm it.”

Each course came out, one after another. Seasonal vegetables, pickles, and sashimi, each plate decorated like a piece of artwork. I sampled each tiny portion for them and related the food somehow to Japanese culture. The monks were enthralled. Fried walnuts, thinly sliced sea bream, vinegar-picked crab, tempura squash, rice boiled with chestnuts, amberjack sushi, a pot of eel dumplings, the food kept coming out, and I never ran out of things to say. Many times, I was still talking when the plates were cleared and the next one brought out.

At some point, I realized that many eyes were on me from all over the room. A man from the UN is snapping photographs using his DSLR camera, capturing me kneeling before the monks and tasting mashed sweet potato with Mondatta's unused chopsticks. I normally thrived on being the center of attention, but I knew that most of the guests and _all_ of the geisha and _maiko_ in attendance had no idea what was being said, since I was speaking in English. They were certain to believe I was bonding with the Shambali at their expense, or making up outrageous lies, or perhaps being crude and overly flirtatious. The geisha, in particular, would not be happy with me, I knew.

It only got worse.

A face I recognized from many events, the mayor of Hanamura himself, spoke up. “This is beautiful,” he said in Japanese, addressing the whole room, “Suzume-san shares the experience of _kaiseki_ with our Omnic guests, since they cannot experience it themselves. This is the kind of hospitality that I wish for Hanamura to be known for one day.”

Some of the foreign guests began a weak round of applause for me, or for this speech, I could not tell. The geisha had no choice but to join in, even though their gazes were vicious. I wished I could disappear.

“My goal is to promote more Omnic tourism to Hanamura,” the mayor continued, “And this gives me hope that such a thing is possible. Suzume-san, tomorrow morning, we are meeting at Hanamura Castle to take some pictures with our Omnic guests, to promote our city as a destination that welcomes them. I would love for you to come and be a part of our photoshoot.”

There was nothing worse he could have suggested. I knew Hanzo would be thrilled, but these women would be so jealous that they would try to tear my reputation to shreds afterward. I had to think of some way out of this mess, some way that I could save face.

“I am honored by the invitation,” I said with a small bow of my head, “But I am the least photogenic geisha here.”

“Nonsense. You embody this project,” he insisted.

“Wouldn't a _maiko_ look more iconic?” I asked, gesturing towards the young girls seated beside their geisha mentors. Their more colorful costumes, extravagant hair ornaments, and feminine makeup was more impressive to tourists than we geisha were. Even the mayor couldn't deny that. “I don't have a little sister right now, but look at how many beautiful _maiko_ sit in this very room.”

“Suzume-san, you simply _must_ go,” said the member of the Diet, who, being a woman, must have seen what I was trying to do and took sympathy on me, “But perhaps we could play a game of _Tosenkyo_ to determine who will come with you?”

 _Tosenkyo_ was a game played with the fans of geisha and _maiko_ , and it involved knocking over a little toy plastic fan by throwing the real ones. The fans were distributed to the guests, and it would be the geisha or _maiko_ whose fan was played by the winners that would accompany me tomorrow. I had humbled myself, created an opportunity for other girls, and had brought the party to life. To me, it seemed an appropriate time to excuse myself, especially since I could not personally be involved in the game.

I said my goodbyes. They all begged me to satay, of course, but I felt suddenly overwhelmed. I made excuses and rose to my feet. As I left, I noticed that Zenyatta was watching me, his chin tilted down in a submissive, defeated way. I didn't want to seem too focused on him, even as my heart raced at his disappointment, so I looked to Mondatta as I departed instead, offering him a final smile. Mondatta, however, had his head cocked, and he was staring strangely at Zenyatta.

* * *

 

I woke up before dawn to start getting ready for the photoshoot, and I regretted that I had left early. Knowing which girls were going to the photoshoot would have helped me make a decision on what to wear from our collection of kimono. I knew the habits of some of the other geisha in Hanamura. I could have guessed a color or symbol they might wear, based on what looked best with their eyes or the shape of their face, or else based on their preferences and what I knew about the collection from their _okiya_. But as I had left before seeing the winners, I struggled to make my choice blindly.

Help came from an unexpected source.

“You should wear this one,” Hanzo said.

It was a pale green kimono decorated in silvery-white clouds and mountains. Coiled around the mountains, winding across the silk, was a dragon embroidered in gold. The mouth was opened in a terrible roar, the eyes were burning knots of scarlet thread. Hanzo _would_ have picked this one out, I thought. He had a tattoo of a great dragon, just like this one, stretched up and down his entire arm. “It's tacky,” I complained.

“And _that_ is not?” Hanzo pointed to the kimono I grasped, the one I had thought I should wear. It was a stunning, multicolored scene from the Tale of Genji. Genji, the titular character whom I expected myself to be named after, was nowhere on the kimono, as it depicted a scene from the story many years after his death. At the bottom of the kimono was an extravagant scene of a Heian court, all the men and women in their brightly colored, intricate costumes positioned inside a mansion and its lovely garden, bursting with flowers and autumn foliage. Rising above the scene, it depicted the Uji River, snaking up the side of the kimono and surrounded in fog. The Uji Bridge stretched across its width, with the beautiful character Ukifune standing in the middle, contemplating her suicide.

"This was mother's,” I protested.

“The dragon is the Shimada family crest,” Hanzo countered, “And the castle grounds are filled with dragon imagery.”

I could have argued with him, but I swallowed my words. Maybe it was because I was afraid that Zenyatta wouldn't recognize me, even if the Tale of Genji kimono brought the name Genji up in conversation. But I knew that I also feared that, if he did recognize me, he would be disgusted to know the truth. So many people were disgusted by me. Even Hanzo could hardly stand to look at me once the makeup was on.

With a sigh, I put the Tale of Genji kimono back in its box. I dug through our collection to find an obi, eventually settling on a cream-colored one with ivory and golden clouds hand-painted on the silk. It would let the dragon stand out, I thought, and when I turned back to Hanzo for approval, he simply gave a nod. I wanted to argue that I was _not_ a Shimada, that this dragon was not mine to wear. But he had to drive one final nail of unhappiness into my mood: “Don't forget your dance practice after the photoshoot,” he said, and he stalked out of the shed.

* * *

 

The morning was overcast, the sun trying its hardest to peek out around curtains of heavy grey clouds, and it was chilly, finally beginning to feel like winter was on its way. I was driven up to the temple for the second time in two days, the second time in my life. The tall wooden gates were roped off to the public, but a pair of very serious-looking police officers welcomed me in. The temple felt very different without the throngs of tourists. It was made up of wooden structures arranged around a zen garden of rocks and meticulously raked sand. The central pagoda housed that bronze monster of a bell, the one that Mondatta had given his speech in front of the day before. Today, a man was setting up studio lighting in front of the bell, muttering as he took test shots of an Omnic stand-in.

“Zenyatta!” I called to him, and my mood improved just at the sight of him.

He lifted his head at the sound of my voice. “Suzume-san, good morning.”

I made my way towards him across the frame of wooden walking platforms, as fast as my kimono and _zori_ shoes would allow. I hovered behind the photographer, wanting to get closer, but not wanting to ruin the shot. “Please, just call me Suzume,” I said.

“Of course, Suzume. The others have already started in the castle,” Zenyatta told me.

“Why don't I just keep you company out here?” I suggested.

“Please, do not miss your opportunity to be photographed on my behalf.”

I laughed, probably a little too bitterly to be considered very ladylike. “Were you not paying attention to me last night, when I tried everything I could to get out of this?”

“I thought that perhaps you were just being modest.” He was trying to stay still for the photographer, but I could tell that he was struggling not to laugh with me.

“Me? Never.”

The photographer muttered assurances that he was nearly done. “Getting the flash right is impossible with you things,” he said.

I flinched, but if Zenyatta found the comment as cruel as I did, then he didn't react to it. I wanted to change the subject but, for what felt like the first time in my life, I couldn't think of anything clever to say. If only I could just be Genji! I wanted to pull the keychain out of my obi, where I had tucked it that morning, to show him how I treasured it. I wanted to tease him for wasting my money at the arcade yesterday. I wanted to tell him how pretentious the banquet had been, how much I'd rather be in bed right now, how spending an afternoon with him had been the easiest and best day of my life. But instead, I was stuck running through the appropriate things Suzume might say, and, outside of the _hanamachi_ , it all felt so fake and ridiculous.

“Could you move maybe two feet to your right?” the photographer asked of Zenyatta. The Omnic shuffled around according to his directions, “Turn your back just slightly towards the bell. A little more. Shoulders straight. No, no, tilt your head back the way it was. Yes! Now, Miss, can I have you go and stand beside him?”

Unable to protest, I moved to Zenyatta's side and smiled at the camera, but the photographer shook his head. “No, no. Face him. I want to see the back of your kimono.” I turned to face Zenyatta, so that the knot of my obi faced the photographer, but he was unhappy with something he saw, and he gave another burst of commands. We continued to shift and twist and adjust. Finally he stopped us: “Don't move a muscle!” He went to make adjustments to the lighting.

We were standing facing each other, me in front of him, and my body just slightly tilted towards his right. Our chests were mere inches apart. I was relieved that I had been asked to look to the side, so that my face was visible to the camera over my shoulder, because then I didn't have to meet the Omnic's eyes.

“How long will you be in Hanamura?” I asked him quietly. I honestly didn't want to know the answer. I wanted to go on thinking that each day I would continue to be summoned into Zenyatta's presence, banquet after banquet, photoshoot after photoshoot. We were involved in a dance just shy of outwardly flirting, and even though I had flirted with people for my job since I was a teenager, I finally felt invested in it. This wasn't a game. This was something that made me feel _alive._

“We leave tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I expected I had at least the rest of the week left with him. But not even twenty-four hours? It was truly like being punched in the stomach. I couldn't even think of what else to say. All my possible words churned like nausea in my stomach.

“This was intended to be a short stop on our way to Hiroshima,” Zenyatta explained, “But we got caught up in some discussions with your mayor about future plans for us here.”

So this was over. I had no idea what to say. I didn't even want to be there anymore. I felt like I was the lone fool in costume at a Halloween party. From his tone alone, I could tell Zenyatta was sorry to be leaving so soon, but that was no condolence. I felt that he, and my heart, and the whole world had betrayed me. “Have you enjoyed Japan?” I asked him, trying to fill the silence.

“It has been my favorite part of the tour so far,” he said, “The people are all very welcoming.”

“What has been your favorite thing here?”

“The arcades,” he said, and I couldn't help it; that certainly made me smile. It hurt that he was leaving before I really got the chance to know him, but the fact that I, as Genji, had made an impact on his experience here was like a bandage over the wound. _Genji_. Not Suzume. _Genji_. Not Suzume. It was a mantra that played in my head.

Before he could add anything, before I could respond, the photographer interrupted us, “Okay, thank you both. Could you let them know that I am ready?”

Neither of us were in much of a hurry. I circled the bronze bell. Hanzo had been right; the thing was covered in carvings of dragons that resembled the one in gold on my kimono. I reached out to put my palm against one of their snarling heads. The bronze was warm from the sunlight.

“The clouds have cleared,” Zenyatta said.

I looked up to find that he had wandered out onto a viewing platform behind the bell. Indeed, the clouds had parted to reveal lilac skies, and the tremendous cone of Mt. Fuji rose towards the morning sun. Her peak was coated in purest white snow. All the way to her base, the city of Hanamura stretched out beneath us. It was a forest of skyscrapers and train rails and neon signs. It stunned me to think that my brother had grown up here. I felt the ache of abandonment suddenly, worse than I could ever remember feeling in my adulthood. I would have loved to live here, I thought, if my father had cared enough to allow me.

“Beautiful,” I sighed, but I turned to him and added, “But it's probably nothing to you. Isn't your monastery in the Himalayas?”

“Beauty of one thing does not diminish the beauty of another,” Zenyatta answered.

“That isn't true,” I said, “If I were standing next to the most beautiful person in the world, would I not look less beautiful by comparison?”

“Who is to say you are not the most beautiful in the world?”

I couldn't tell if he was making a point or trying to flatter me. I tore my eyes off the spectacular view to risk grinning up at him, “If I didn't know better, I would say you were flirting!”

“No more than you were last night at the dinner party,” he said, and he drew his legs up beneath him and floated backwards, down a flight of stairs.

“It is my job!” I called after him.

“Of course, Suzume,” he said.

I followed him down the steps. I had a sudden fantasy of him leading me to a dark, unused room in the castle. The taste, like blood, of metal on my tongue. The whisper of silk as he took my kimono in his hands and peeled it off of me, layer by layer. But then the fantasy was shattered when I remembered that, beneath the costume, I was _Genji._ And he was leaving tomorrow. And he was a _monk_. Nothing would happen between us, and, if it did, one or both of us would end up hurt.

Still, I found myself wanting to know what it might feel like, just to hold his hand, at least.

We moved around the perimeter of the zen garden, him floating ahead and me trailing in his shadow, then through the towering wooden gate into the castle grounds. There was a second garden here, this one with a gazebo and many cherry trees that must have looked lovely in spring. I wished to prolong our walk together, but the photoshoot was wrapping up in the gazebo – one of Zenyatta's fellow Shambali was posing with three _maiko_ beside a stone lantern. An assistant was throwing handfulls of leaves from just outside of the frame, and in the photograph, it must have looked like they were being carried by the wind.

After Zenyattata passed along our message that the other photographer was ready in the temple, I had hoped that I could stay off to the side, spending more company in Zenyatta's presence. Unfortunately, I was immediately pulled into the chaos of the photoshoots. I did not believe that Zenyatta and I would ever be alone together again.

* * *

I had hoped my whole morning would be taken up with the photographers, because it gave me a valid excuse to miss my dance lesson. Of course, as if I hadn't been disappointed enough by Zenyatta, the shoot only lasted an hour. Mondatta had another round of speeches scheduled downtown, and all the geisha and _maiko_ were dismissed the moment the last picture was taken.

Oh, well, I supposed. The entire situation with Zenyatta had put me in an antsy, restless mood. Perhaps dance would help me focus and calm down.

My instructor came from a long line of dance instructors who had always taught inside the _hanamachi_. She was an expert at the art and was in line to inherit the dance school from her ancient mother. She wasn't a pretty woman, she was older herself and her mouth made her look like a horse, but when she moved, she became more beautiful than I was by far. She was like the flow of a river, the descent of a cherry blossom, the sway of tall grasses in the wind. I could have watched her for hours, could have practiced without end for a lifetime, and I didn't think I would ever accomplish what she could in a performance.

She _loathed_ me. My mother had been even better than her at the height of her career, so whether I had been good at dancing or not, the instructor's jealousy would have marked me as her least favorite student. The fact that I was lazy and clumsy on stage meant that she had every excuse to be cruel to me and make my lessons miserable.

That day, she had me doing a scene where a man went to pray at a shrine and had his soul cleansed by a spirit residing there. I was having trouble with this one motion, where my hand was to arc over my head, representing the start of the purification. I wasn't able to find the right speed for the movement, and I could tell that my instructor was about to dismiss me in her frustration.

But I found a strange image kept appearing in my head. Zenyatta's mala, and how he could make the large beads circle around his head at any speed, seemingly aligned with his mood. When I had stood beside him by the bell, they had floated in such a particular way. I held the vision in my mind's eye. My arm extended and did an arc at the same speed. I thought of the flow of air that his beads created, as subtle as a breath. The motion completed, I moved into the next step of the dance – a drawn-out turn on my heel. My teacher still did not stop me, so I continued. One move after another, the man in the story was made pure, and the dance culminated in a kneeling position, my arms extended to the ceiling, and it was Zenyatta I imagined myself reaching out towards, not the fictional spirit of the shrine.

“What happened?” my teacher asked me when the dance was over.

I tried not to laugh. Was it that bad? “I am sorry,” was all that I allowed myself to say. I didn't care about dance at all, but my face was burning red, anyway; I had never done so poorly that she had asked anything like that before.

“Don't apologize. You suddenly found your inspiration. That was the most beautiful I've seen you dance before.”

So I did it again, starting at the top. And again, and again. As long as I thought about the way Zenyatta moved, it was easy to pace myself and latch onto the emotions behind the scene.

When I left the dance school, I wanted to run to find him. I wanted to tell him how he had inspired me. In my excitement, I would hug him. Maybe even kiss him, right on his shiny mouth. Never in my life had there been anyone I was so eager to spend time with. Never in my life had another person pushed me in such a positive way. I knew in my chest was a tiny seed, threatening to burst into a full bloom of love, and I was terrified. Not only was he an Omnic, which would have complicated my feelings enough, but he was leaving tomorrow. And, worst of all, he didn't know who I was. Not that I had any better idea myself. 

It was so complicated. Some people went to desk jobs and suffered in front of computer screens all day, or they slapped buttons on cash registers while entitled customers drained the joy from their daily lives, or they wasted years studying for jobs that they would never truly be happy in. I  _loved_ my job. I loved putting on the expensive kimono and covering myself in makeup and spending the evenings around the most interesting, wealthiest people in my city. I loved... being a woman, honestly. I loved people looking at me like I was beautiful. I loved the power I had over people when I, as Suzume, brushed against their arm or met their eye for too long. It wasn't an act, as much as it did sometimes exhaust me. But at the same time, it would have killed me to give up being Genji, too. The day spent with Zenyatta at the arcade had been effortless and happy and wonderful. I couldn't just push Genji back out of the picture and be Suzume for Zenyatta forever. That'd be the equivalent of me asking him to pretend to be human. In a perfect world, I would tell him the truth. But I risked losing every bit of affection he had for me, just by being myself. Most people were not very understanding of my situation... But if I continued lying, we could never be together, because the closer we got, the more certainly the truth would come out in some horrible way. My only option was to keep him at an arm's length as Suzume.

At least he was going home tomorrow, I thought. Just one more night of playing this game. It was both a relief and a letdown at the same time.

When I trudged into the _okiya_ , my brother was waiting for me, holding his scheduling book in his hands. Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he proceeded to absolutely ruin my evening by telling me that I had been invited to the final dinner party for the visiting United Nations members and the Shambali.

I wanted to _scream._ I wanted to tear all of the hair out of my wig. I wanted to burn the entire shed of kimono down.

Instead, I nodded and went to get ready. I had this absurd idea to sabotage the night and ruin my relationship with Zenyatta. I couldn't be with him as Genji, so Suzume couldn't be with him either. I guess I wanted control over the situation. If I broke my own heart, then I could handle the heartbreak. It wouldn't be as bad as this miserable, useless pining. So I chose a kimono that I hated, a deep, inky black that was scattered with thousands of small maple leaves in browns and reds and golds. It was _so_ cliché and _so_ obvious for the season that it had sat unworn in the shed my entire life; I don't even remember my mother ever wearing it. I paired it with a white and rust-colored obi that had golden stripes; another piece of our collection I found ugly. The moment I stepped outside of the _okiya_ , I expected the rumors of my sanity to start, because surely Suzume would never wear an outfit like this in her right mind.

At the _ochaya_ , I went through the same ritual of entering the room and introducing myself. I was early, one of the first geisha to arrive, and I pretty much had my pick of where to sit and who to entertain. I scanned the faces, trying and failing not to look in Zenyatta's direction, but I could feel his gaze on me, as hot as a fever. I decided to sit with the group from the UN, and I immediately got to work asking them all their names again and where they had come from. Suddenly they were all talking to me about Switzerland, engaging in a hearty conversation as they sloshed the sake around in their glasses and down their button-up shirts like swine. “I'd love to travel there,” I said, even though I had no idea what they were saying. They could have been telling me how awful the country was, for all I cared. It was hard to focus on the conversations with them, because I was aware of Zenyatta's presence, which wanted to pull me in close to him like a magnetic force.

I was thankful that my white foundation was like a mask. If anyone noticed the anguish in my features, they never remarked on it.

I kept glancing over, expecting Zenyatta to be watching me, but the other geisha and _maiko_ were arriving quickly, and one of the girls had already taken my spot in front of the Shambali. She hadn't even offered to pour them oil, I noticed with a bitterness in my gut, even though they had not drunk any the night before, it still seemed right to _offer._ She was telling them jokes, apparently. I couldn't hear her words, but I could hear Zenyatta's tinny laughter reverberate inside of me.

I wished I had never come in that day. I wished I had called the _ochaya_ and pretended to be too sick to come. Every time I heard him speak, every time I watched him meet the other geisha's eyes, I felt jealousy rise up in me like vomit. Why had I sat over here? It had been foolish to try and ruin our beautiful friendship by avoiding him tonight. If we were fated to spend just this short, singular weekend in each other's company, then so be it. I would not fight my fate. I would accept the inevitable heartbreak, as long as that meant his laughter was for _me_ and not for her. I had to get over to him.

“Miss Suzume, why do you look so down tonight?” one man asked. He was from France, and he spoke with a thick accent. All night, he had been touching me whenever he saw the opportunity. Our Japanese guests knew better than to touch us, but these men, and even the Omnics, from the UN did not seem so shy.

“I have found out that you all leave us tomorrow,” I said, and it was not really a lie, “I am so sad that tonight will be my last in your company.”

It was, apparently, the right thing to say, because all of the foreign guests cooed words to me that they must have thought were comforting. They assured me that they could come and visit, that the goodbye did not have to be forever. And then, from his side of the room, Zenyatta's voice rose up over theirs, “Do not be sad to see us go, Miss Suzume, for you have made our lives better just to have known you.”

I felt such fondness for him in that moment that it nearly suffocated me. It was a blistering hot emotion that welled up in my chest, in my lungs, stealing my breath away. But then, to my horror, the translator from the UN was relaying the conversation to the rest of the room in Japanese.

It wasn't that I couldn't curry favor with guests; we were all expected to. But the fact that they were so important, and that I was excluding the girls from the conversation by speaking in English, made them turn on me.

“Did you know that Suzume-san's mother was the best dancer in all of Hanamura,” one of them piped up.

“Yes, Suzume-san! You should dance for us!”

They were being cruel to me, and I knew it. It was no secret that I was a clumsy dancer, and that it took twice as long for me to study the steps, only to get up on stage and pull a mediocre performance. The whole room was full of geisha and _maiko_ who thought I would get up there and lose face in front of everyone. Only the guests did not realize what was occurring. Soon, they, too were chorusing approval at the suggestion. There was no way I could back out.

Except no one realized that I had my epiphany at dance practice just hours before. I rose to my feet, locking eyes with Zenyatta from across the room. _I will dance for you_ , I thought, and I wished I could project those feelings to him through my eyes. He bowed his head very slightly at me, a gesture so subtle that it could have been for no one else but me. It was like he could understand what was going on in my head.

A maid went to fetch one of the _ochaya_ staff who played _shamisen_ , and when the older woman returned with her instrument, I shuffled into place across the room, where all eyes were on me. We discussed in whispers what she would play, but I had to make up excuses for most of her suggestions, because I had learned them long ago and had made no effort to memorize the steps. “Oh, that one is out of season!” I said, or else, “My kimono is not suited for that character!” Or, “That dance looks better with a pair of dancers!” Finally, we agreed on a dance about a courtesan who has paid off all of her debts and can finally leave to be with her lover.

I was confident. Maybe it was foolish of me to be so, since I had only experienced success once, but confidence was in my sparrow nature. I stood with my back to the room, my fan grasped in tense fingers. My only regret in that moment was that I hadn't worn a more lovely costume. I cursed myself for ever thinking that I could use an ugly costume like a suit of armor against my heart. Even then, as I listened for the first string to be plucked, I could hear the happy whir of Zenyatta's machinery. It was likely the combined sounds of all the Omnics in the room, but when I closed my eyes and focused on it, it was easy to imagine him behind me, watching in rapt attention.

The song began, and I waved my fan in a graceful arc above my head. As the arc completed, I brought the fan around towards the audience, and my body followed its path. As soon as my face was to them, the room lit up with camera flashes. I ignored them, barely even breathing as I strained to hear the hum of Omnic life somewhere between the music and the snapping of camera shutters. According to the steps of the dance, I next knelt to the floor, bringing my fan in against my chest. I shifted weight from one leg to the next with the slow beats of the music, and when the chords sped up, I rose to my feet in one elegant sweep of kimono silk, spinning the fan around me and letting my body be pulled along behind the path of the fan. My motions became more melodramatic and lively, my arms reaching out to the audience – to Zenyatta – before bringing the fan back in to cover my face for a few beats of the music. _I'm doing good!_ I thought, allowing myself a smile of victory behind the fan. Then I pulled it away from my face with a fluid wave.

I found it easy to recall all of the steps, my muscle memory jogged by the pitchy vibrations of the _shamisen_ strings. I swept across the stage, my feet doing everything they were supposed to, my arms doing everything they were supposed to. My only error was how frequently I let my eyes lock on Zenyatta's shining face. By the tilt of his head, I could tell that he was enthralled. It made my insides sear with pride. This was fun! Why had I spent so much of my life hating to dance?

With the last notes of the song, I lowered myself to my knees. I closed my fan and set it on the tatami in front of me. As I bowed, completing the dance, the room erupted in applause. I held the bow for a long time, my face to the floor, listening to the cameras going off all around me. Finally, I rose back to my feet. The geisha were furious that their joke had backfired, but none of them could do anything but clap for me. They had made fools of only themselves. I won't lie; it was definitely satisfying. But most satisfying of all was the awe and the joy that I could read in Zenyatta's body language.

While I stood there, absorbing the applause and the compliments, I realized that I felt extremely  _over_ this entire night, this entire situation. I felt _good_ that I had got the hang of dancing. I was proud of myself. I wanted to go take a long bath, have a couple of beers, eat my own body weight in greasy _karage. Genji_ things. My whole life I had been Suzume every day. I didn't get holidays or weekends off, because those were the days I was most busy. But suddenly I craved a vacation. Maybe I'd take a whole month off, or a whole season. And just wear sweatpants and eat junk food and play video games. Perhaps when I'd gotten over these uncomfortable, nonsensical feelings that I was having for this Omnic monk in front of me, then I could put the costume back on and return to work.

I excused myself from the party, but I wasn't allowed to leave yet. The guests all wanted to say goodbye to me individually, and, since tonight would be my last opportunity, there was no way for me to say no without being rude. So I took countless photographs, many with each of them, and I shook everyone's hands. Nearly everyone's. The Shambali were familiar with this Western gesture, due to their traveling, but it still wasn't customary for them. Instead, they clasped their hands together and each bid me farewell with a “Namaste.”

I hesitated in front of Zenyatta. There was so much I wanted to say, but absolutely none of it was appropriate. He still had no idea that I was the man he had wasted hours playing arcade games with on his first day in Hanamura. Nor did he have any clue that the subsequent moments we had spent together had endeared him to me more and more. No one had ever made me feel so like myself, like one person instead of two lives shared by one body. He had been my friend as Genji. He had been my friend as Suzume. In our two short days together, he had become the one person who could see through my mask. I never wanted to let go of him, and yet, there I was, saying goodbye.

“You don't look so well, Miss Suzume,” Mondatta said, “Perhaps I could spare one of my brothers to walk you home?”

I looked to him, my mouth agape. It was like he had read my mind! I tried to erase the shock from my features. “Oh, I would never want to deny any one of them the pleasures of this party. Not on your last night in Hanamura,” I said.

The other guests began to offer themselves, laughing and shouting that they would gladly miss the party for the opportunity to walk me home. Mondatta raised his hand, silencing them. “Miss Suzume would love for any one of you to walk with her, but she has her reputation to think of. The only appropriate escort would be one of my brothers, a humble monk.”

No one could deny the wisdom in that. I was trying to contain the smile from my face.

“Brother Zenyatta,” Mondatta said, “Could you escort Miss Suzume to her home?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

 At first, we walked in silence. I had thought that the walk would feel as intimate as our moment together at the temple overlooking Hanamura, but I should have known better. It was still early in the evening. I had only been at the party for an hour, if that. So my world was still bustling – geisha moved from building to building, their vibrant costumes adding explosive color to the tranquil, traditional architecture of the _hanamachi._ The _ochaya_ we passed were lit up from within, spilling their warm glow into the streets, and the lively noise of parties could be heard, even out here. Melodies played on _shamisen_ or _taiko_ drums. Roaring laughter. The clinking of glasses and ceramics. I tried to shut all of the distraction out. This was my final moment with Zenyatta, and I wanted to make it a special memory to cherish. So I decided to lead him on a longer way to my _okiya_ , taking a dark alley to cross over onto the next parallel street, one which was unlikely to be used for as much foot traffic and which would eventually spit us out behind our destination. We were no longer on the loveliest street of the _hanamachi_ , but at least we were finally alone. Chatter could be heard from the surrounding buildings. Overfed cats watched us from the shadows. A sheet of dead leaves spread beneath my shoes, and each step made a crunch that gave me goosebumps of pleasure.

“Does the sound make you feel anything, Zenyatta?” I asked him.

“What sound?”

“The leaves!” I said, and I stomped my _zori_ down particularly hard with my next step, creating a crackle so loud that it sent a chill through my foot and all the way up my spine.

Zenyatta had been floating beside me, but at my question, he lowered his feet to the pavement and listened to the rustle as he kicked through the fallen leaves. He seemed thoughtful, maybe even confused. “You mean such as joy or sadness?”

“Hm, not really,” I said, “I mean something more physical. For me, the sound makes me shiver. It gives me pleasure.”

“Ah, yes. Such as the sound of bells?”

I hadn't thought about it before. Sometimes, going about my daily life downhill from the temple, I could hear the prayer bell ring out across the mountain. Even though I wasn't personally religious, the majestic tone always stopped me in the midst of whatever I was doing, and I loved the deep rattle of its vibrations that I could feel in my bones.

I beamed at him, nodding my head. “Or kimono dragging across the tatami.”

“A gentle thunderstorm,” he added, nodding his metal head.

I spun around to face him, grabbing him by the shoulders. The mala froze in the air around his head, vibrating slightly with tension. I leaned in, our cheeks nearly touching. “Or when someone gets _really_ close to whisper something _very_ quiet,” I breathed against his face. The sound I sometimes heard, the soft hum that came from him when he was content, could be felt as the faintest of tremors against my palms. Breathless, I kissed him, just a light touch of my lips to his golden mouthplate. I felt a slight electric current against my mouth, tingling in my teeth. It was a sensation that I knew would fuel dreams for the rest of my life.

When I pulled away, I saw that his face was dripping beads of condensation. I was sweating, too, a nervous pit growing in my stomach. I thought I might be sick right there in the streets. We had come up behind my _okiya_ , and now stood by the back garden wall. It was high enough to hide us from being discovered if anyone in the _okiya_ decided to look out the windows, but still, I felt my brother's presence mere feet away, and I knew if I was caught with Zenyatta like this, he would absolutely lose his mind. Not to mention how my reputation would be ruined. But who gave a single damn about Suzume's reputation? I felt something _real_ for Zenyatta, and it was the first time in my life I had felt anything like this. It was also the last chance I had, since he was leaving tomorrow. This moment with him was worth risking everything.

I took both of his hands in my own. I expected the metal to feel cool, but it was surprisingly warm. I held them against my chest, tilting my head down to brush soft kisses to the tips of his fingers. “My room is the only one on the top floor,” I told him, “Please come up with me.”

“Are you certain?”

I smirked at him. “Of course. My dresser and maids weren't expecting me back for several hours, and I can't take off my obi by myself.” I slid his hands around my back, to the box-style knot of my obi.

His hands went rigid in the fabric and the mala sprung apart from each other, widening the circle around him. They began to spin quite wildly; I could feel the breeze from their speed as they passed my face. “As... _lovely_ as your suggestion sounds, Miss Suzume,” Zenyatta said, and I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, “I have always been taught that giving in to urges would weaken my connection to the Iris.”

I should have assumed that Shambali monks had taken vows of celibacy like the monks of other religions. I felt foolish. I didn't know why, for a single instant, I had let myself entertain sexual fantasies. Of course he wouldn't come to my room. Of course he wouldn't undress me. He _couldn't_ anyway – the moment my kimono came off, the secret would be out. I had to stay Suzume for him, or else the connection I felt, and I know he felt too, would be severed. I wanted him as both identities. Suzume and Genji were united by their desire to feel his hands on their shared body. It was a sexual awakening like I had never known before. I was Suzume. I was Genji. There was no line where one ended and the other began. If only I could convey this to him. If only I could stay the pretty, charming Suzume in his eyes, while also letting him know that I was Genji, unafraid of physical urges, wild and untamed as a sparrow.

I released his hands, but he took mine up very gently, bringing them in to his own chest. “I have been privately doubting the teachings of my Shambali brothers for a long time now,” he told me.

“Don't doubt them privately,” I said, flashing him a playful smile, “Doubt them with me.”

* * *

 

The pale blue glow of the lights in his forehead was just enough for us to see each other by in my dark bedroom. I guided him with whispered instructions as he unraveled the knot of my obi, and when the thing had finally come off of me, I was touched by how he folded it like the treasure it was, and set it down on the surface of my vanity. I slid out of my kimono, letting it fall to the tatami, and I stood there feeling so naked in my _hiyoku_ – the undergarment we wear beneath our kimono that is nearly a full kimono itself. Mine was deep red, with gold geometric patterns at the hem, and while I doubted he could see the color or the design in the darkness, I felt prettier in it than I had felt in the cliched maple leaf kimono all evening.

If I had been bolder, I would have taken the _hiyoku_ off as well. But I was still unsure, and I believe so was he, so neither of us made an attempt to remove it.

I settled down onto my futon, aware of how my wig was squashed when my head touched the pillow, but I didn't care. I'd spend a million yen on a new wig if I had to, just to stay pretty for him in this moment. I patted the futon beside me, welcoming him to my side. He had been floating this entire time, trying to keep his heavy footsteps from alerting the house of his presence, but he lowered himself to the tatami and slid down in my arms. Now his mala circled both of us at a relaxed pace. It excited me to be inside the ring they formed.

“I've never done this before,” I said, referring to so many things. Smuggled someone into the _okiya._ Undressed in front of a customer. Touched an Omnic. I'm not sure how Zenyatta interpreted it. He didn't even respond, but I could hear how loud and fast his insides were working. Was this the Omnic equivalent of a racing heartbeat? He sounded like the white noise from an air conditioning unit. “Do you mind if I touch you?” I asked.

“My body is yours to explore,” he whispered. When he spoke so quietly like this, his voice was more robotic than human, and it made me tremble, _actually tremble_ , like a frightened teenage virgin.

I couldn't see his parts well enough in the dim light he gave off, so I just put my hands on him and let them roam. I had already learned not to expect cold, lifeless metal, but the energy I felt when my palms pressed to his chestplate seemed like magic to me. My fingers traced every seam along his torso. In the darkness, I could not see the dents and scratches to his frame, but my fingertips found them, and, then, my lips – I brushed kisses over every blemish, every imperfection, wondering about the stories behind them all. And, feeling bolder, I let my tongue explore them, too. He was tense, at first, uncomfortable with being handled this way. His arms lay stiff at his sides. But with every kiss and lick, he melted against me. He gripped the silk of my _hiyoku_. His legs parted, letting me in closer. His head rolled back against the futon, drawing my attention up to the pistons of his neck and shoulders. I brushed my fingers up and down their lengths. They were warmer than his chest plate, hot in places, and I ran my tongue over one of them.

I had never before paid so much attention to _touching_ something, especially not something man-made. Human bodies were all curves and supple flesh that could be squeezed and gripped and broken. Zenyatta was all straight lines, all perfect angles. But I never felt like I was handling an object. He reacted to everything that I did with quivers and gasps, and it all encouraged me to explore more boldly. I wanted to elicit more. So I touched everything. My hands slid up under his chassis. I rolled my thumbs in circles around every nut. I pinched tiny shocks at his joints. I wiggled gears. I had no clue what I was doing, could only guess what might cause pleasure or pain, but I didn't want to leave an inch of him unfamiliar to my groping fingertips. I committed every hinge to memory. I flicked or rubbed or stroked every cable and bolt. There were protrusions and parts that I knew no name for, bits of carbon fiber or silicone or copper or chrome that I let my fingers conquer, until he was writhing beneath me, drenching my futon in the coolant he dripped like sweat, an attempt to cool down his overheating systems. He was panting ragged, too, trying to take in more air. Under his frame, some of the parts my caresses found were growing too hot to touch. His machinations whirred so loudly that I felt certain we would be caught.

 _Catch us –_ I dared them all – _I have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to hide._

I wanted him to guide my hands to the places that aroused the most pleasure, but I knew he was more inexperienced and more uncertain than even I was. He clung to me, the metal grip bruising my skin, but the pain served to anchor me to my flesh. It made me feel deliriously alive and fragile compared to him. He could, if he wanted to, or even if he lost control, snap my bones like toothpicks in those hands. But I had never felt safer.

The lights on his face flickered, and the visibility in he room faded in and out. It didn't matter. All I needed was my sense of touch, to feel his heat against me, and my sense of hearing, to listen to the rise and fall of his humming machinery, and my sense of taste... taste... With a moan, I brought my mouth to the exposed wires in his neck. He jolted against me, and I pinned him back down. Static danced on my teeth and lips. My mouth followed the trail of these wires wherever they led – up his shoulders, across his chest, down his arms, over his spine. The electricity on my tongue had spread through me, making all the hairs on my body stand upright. Ecstasy tingled in me with the pulses of energy he gave off against each kiss.

My licks took me to the wires in his hips, and the room was thrown into light like someone had flung open the curtains just when the sun was facing the windows. I threw an arm over my face, shielding my eyes. It took me a moment to realize the glowing that filled the room from floor to ceiling was Zenyatta himself. I gawked at him.

He had become beautiful, casting illumination the color and warmth of liquid gold. Three extra pairs of arms gripped me, formed from the light like holograms. His mala, each a frantically spinning miniature of the sun, circled us both, giving off pulses that I felt not just physically, but all the way to my _soul_. I could feel his pleasure, except now it was _our_ shared pleasure, my body shaking from the intensity of it just as his did beneath me. I clung to him, biting my lip until I tasted blood, trying to silence myself, when all I wanted to do was scream out from the brilliant ecstasy of it all. There was something else, another feeling. It was a bliss better than sexual release. A feeling of rapture so pure, so intense, that I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. I felt the exhilaration of plummeting, like a sky diver that has not yet released his parachute, but I was also as weightless as a cloud. I was exploding like fireworks on New Year's, but I was also imploding upon myself like a black hole – not into nothingness, though, but into _everythingness._ I was human. I was Omnic. I was the futon. I was the tatami beneath the futon. I was the air. I was the night. I was the stars in the sky.

Then I was thrown back into my own body, my own existence. It had only lasted perhaps five seconds, but I think if it had lasted even a few seconds more, I would have disintegrated into atoms or combusted and burned down the _okiya._ Disconnected from the pleasure, I felt so empty. A thought would begin, but fizzle out before I could grasp it. I fell onto the futon, my senses so broken and abused that I could barely feel Zenyatta beside me. The whole world had been reduced to my heartbeats, and the deafening volume of my own panting, and the pain in my muscles from where he had held me too hard.

I wanted to know if that happened every time, to every Omnic, but I realized the answer must be no. Otherwise, people would chase that feeling, become obsessed with it. They would seek it out like a drug. What had just happened, whatever it was, was something unique. Something that Zenyatta and I alone could say we had experienced.

I rolled over to face him. The room seemed even darker now, in the absence of that celestial radiance. Afterimages of Zenyatta's six golden arms were still seared into my vision, and no matter how I blinked or shook my head, I could not clear them away. The darkness, though, was comforting in its normalcy.

“Please don't leave me,” I whispered to him.

He had grown almost silent, and I wondered if he had broken, or turned off, or entered some kind of rest mode. But after a few soundless seconds, he reached for me. His hand cupped my face. The smooth metal was cool against my flushed skin. I rubbed my cheek into his palm, and tears dripped down his wrist. “Come with me,” he said.

It would have been so easy, I thought, to say yes. My assets were safe in Hanzo's hands. The geisha working here were capable, independent women who would continue to bring honor to the Shimada Okiya. I would follow him to Nepal. There was a Nepalese restaurant in Tokyo that I honestly loved, but that was the extent of my knowledge on the country. Oh, and Mt. Everest was there. So I knew two whole things about Nepal. But as excited as I felt about the offer, I knew I couldn't. I had hid my identity from him this whole time, and there was no excuse for it now. Things had gotten out of hand. The irony was that, thanks to Zenyatta, I felt more at peace with my two identities than I had ever before. I was neither. I was both. Most importantly, though – I was a _liar_.

I pulled myself to my feet and crossed the room, kneeling before my vanity. It was so dark I could barely see my reflection, but Zenyatta's blue glow was enough that I could tell I looked a mess. My tears had left ugly streaks through my white foundation. I opened a drawer, taking out makeup remover and wipes. “I want to, Zenyatta, more than I can even express to you.”

He didn't need me to continue. He nodded, the lights dancing around the room with the movement of his head. “I understand.”

He floated over to my side, and I turned over my shoulder to look up at him. The mala hung sleepy like a necklace around his shoulders. I leaned up to kiss him on the mouth once more. It wasn't a movie kiss. It was close-mouthed, over too fast, failed to convey any of my tumultuous emotions. My face fell into a wretched frown.

“Mondatta wishes to help to open an _okiya_ here for our sisters,” Zenyatta told me, “He believes it will provide education and jobs for Omnic women. So perhaps, one day, I will return.”

A week ago I would have laughed in his face. An Omnic couldn't be a geisha! But I felt so differently about the entire world now. If I, born a man, could be a geisha, then why couldn't an Omnic? There should not be a path in life shut off to someone based on what they did or did not have between their legs, whether that be an organ or bits of machinery. I raised a makeup wipe to clean some smudges of my lipstick from his frame. “You should see Hanamura in the spring. You think these leaves are nice? Just wait until you see the cherry blossoms. And the kimono I could wear for you!”

“I would like to see them,” he said, “both the flowers and your kimono.”

“So you will come back then?” I asked him, casting the wipe aside and grasping his hands in my own. Hope bubbled within me, almost like nausea.

“If I am able to, then I will,” he answered.

I noticed how he did not make a promise, and I swallowed my hope back down. I understood; I couldn't be angry or sad about it. Sometimes the moments in life that define us are just that – _moments._ Experiences that happen in the blink of an eye. The only difference between this night and the ones spent with strangers in love hotels was that my heart was involved.

From the street outside rose giggling and chatter. I squeezed Zenyatta's hands as I listened, as if I could force my ears to work harder by tensing my fists. The front door slid opened, and two of our girls, likely a geisha and her _maiko_ , were received by a maid. They were being so loud, and I knew that Hanzo would emerge from his room at any second now. Zenyatta and I looked at each other. We both knew he had to go. It seemed fitting to me that he had come into my life without warning and was now about to be torn from me without much of a goodbye.

“Go downstairs. Tell them I got sick at the party and that you helped me home,” I said, pulling another wipe out to make sure every last spot of my makeup had been cleaned off of his frame. As I lifted the wipe, however, I decided it was best to keep my hands to myself, so I passed it to him instead. I left him, crossing the room to flick on the lights so that he could see his reflection in the vanity mirror. “You should go back to the party straight from here.”

“I will.”

“Act like you are worried for me.”

“Of course.” He tossed the wipe in the wastebasket, deeming himself free of evidence, and moved for the door to my room.

“Zenyatta,” I gasped, grabbing his wrist. He stopped and bowed his head, waiting for me to say something. But I didn't know what to say. There were volumes I wanted to say to him, and yet I had such little time. “Thank you. You have taught me so much about myself. More than you will ever realize.”

He put a hand to my cheek. “We Shambali try to educate everyone. It is how we spread peace and acceptance. I have taught many people over many years. But, Suzume, I must admit that in a whole lifetime of students, you are undoubtedly my favorite.”

I couldn't stand the sappy words any longer, nor could I stand the uncomfortable lump of emotion that had formed in my throat. With a playful smile, I gave him a push out the door, out of my world.


	3. Epilogue

For a while afterward, Zenyatta sent me postcards from each city their tour passed through. These postcards made me feel close to him, like perhaps he _hadn't_ left my life forever. None of them had a message written on their backs, just the _okiya_ 's address written in his tidy, tiny print. Hiroshima was first – a bright, vibrant photograph of origami cranes strung together like Christmas lights, their papers in every color of the rainbow, from a famous peace memorial there. From Taiwan, a shot of the city skyline with the Taipei 101 building stretching up the length of the frame. From the Philippines, a beach of white sand and turquoise waters. Then came a postcard of the mist-shrouded Halong Bay in Vietnam, and the moss and vine-covered ruins of Angkor Wat looming over dense jungles in Cambodia, and a herd of Asian elephants playing in some muddy water in Thailand. There were half a dozen from China – postcards of the Great Wall, of tremendous surreal rock formations, of a cormorant fisher on his little boat. My favorite was the one from Burma, a photograph of a stunning temple all in gold, more majestic and radiant than even Kyoto's Golden Pavilion. I treasured them all, taping them up all over my room so that I felt surrounded by him.

In December, the board of tourism unveiled marketing for the new year. They hung posters up in train stations all over Japan, created pamphlets that were handed out at airports and hotels, and even revamped the city of Hanamura's tourism website. The picture they chose was of me. Zenyatta and me. It was a shot taken candidly as we stood together looking out over the city, with Mt. Fuji tall and proud in the background. Our backs were to the camera, but we were both turned towards each other, our faces visible over our shoulders. There was so much fondness for him evident in my gaze that I felt sure the whole world new about my feelings, but if anyone guessed, then no one said a thing. I suppose they all thought I was just a wonderful actress.

Nearly overnight, I became a local celebrity. People wanted to interview me for newspapers and radio shows and podcasts and television. Fans sent me letters and gifts. Locals and tourists alike stopped me in the streets to ask for photographs. I was invited to events all over Japan – the 100th anniversary of a hotel in Hakone, some relative of the Emperor throwing a dinner for foreign diplomats in Tokyo, a pop idol celebrating her birthday in Nagasaki. The requests for my appearances came flooding in. I went to some of these things, but I also started declining a lot of invitations. I gave myself whole weeks off sometimes, and when I was called to Tokyo or Hakone or Nagasaki or anywhere else, I would linger there for days and days at a time to sight-see and enjoy my freedom. Some mornings I would wake up, not in the mood to entertain at all, and I would cancel the parties and refund the guests their money. I wanted time to myself, to go to the movies or concerts, to spend weekends shopping at malls, to have a beer and waste hours at the arcade. My loyal patrons were not even mad; as I found a more comfortable balance in my life, Suzume flourished. She didn't feel like an act anymore. She wasn't an act anymore. I could go to any event and liven it up; the guests were like putty in my hands. Hanzo could not be mad at me, either. Money was pouring in, the _okiya's_ business tripled, and the few events I did entertain at, I was able to charge vastly higher prices for my time. 

Somehow I had become the face of geisha tradition, the face of acceptance and equality, the face of welcome, and the face of Hanamura.

I don't know if my father would have been proud to see his sparrow fly, or furious that the door to my cage had been finally opened.

In January, the final postcard came from Kathmandu. It featured the impressive snow-capped mountain ranges of the Himalayas in the background, and, in the foreground, a city. Modern enough, but no skyscrapers, no neon lights or speeding trains. It was a humble little city. No glamour in sight. While the postcard had no message on it, just like the others, I heard the cliched line in my head – _wish you were here!_ This was Zenyatta's home. Or perhaps not exactly his home, but this was the world he was familiar with. I spent the rest of the winter obsessing over the photograph, envisioning a life there. Lying in my futon at night, I would fall asleep with my phone in my hand, in the middle of doing online searches about Nepali food, or their customs, or how to say things like _I miss you_ or _I love you,_ only to find these phrases unpronounceable to me. When Zenyatta came that spring, I would ask him how to pronounce those syllables. And when he asked me to return home with him, this time, I would say “ _Ho!_ ” which the internet told me meant _yes._

But spring came, and Zenyatta did not.

I knew he would not want to hurt me, was not being cruel on purpose. Something had come up, perhaps a disaster in Nepal, or some new development in his search for Omnic rights and equality. The cherry blossoms bloomed and fell, and I all but held my breath waiting for a letter at the very least, but none came. Of course none came. There were no post offices in the mountains of the Himalayas. Perhaps he would go into the city soon, the city on the postcard, and send me some news then. But even as I successfully convinced myself of these things, I was struck by such grief, such a sense of worthlessness, that I could hardly drag myself out of bed most mornings.

I wrote him letters that I could not send, for I didn't know the monastery's address. I told him that I understood, that I missed him but I wasn't angry, that I would wait forever if I had to just to hold him again, but it was so emotional and ridiculous that I took a match to the packet of letters and let the ash fall into the sink. Other days I wrote about how he had hurt me, that he should have been honest and told me he didn't want to see me again, that he had only wanted me because I was beautiful and that he didn't give a damn about my heart. These letters, too, I destroyed – tearing them into pieces and stuffing them in the trash, dumping tea leaves onto them so that the moisture bled into the paper and turned the letters into meaningless blobs of ink. In one letter I confessed to him that I loved him, that I had fallen in love with him watching him fail over and over again at the crane games, that Genji and Suzume were two names for the same person, and that sometimes I felt more like Suzume and other times more like Genji, that I was entirely both and entirely neither, and that I had felt like two people in the same body for my whole life until the moment I had met him, and suddenly I saw myself with clarity. I wanted to send this letter so badly to him, but I realized how stupid it sounded. I had known him for two days. How could I express these things without looking like I had lost my mind? I ripped this letter into a countless number of confetti-small pieces and took them with me to the temple, where I threw them off the side of the mountain and watched them disappear from my sight, taken to secret places by the wind.

I flipped between these feelings for him from moment to moment like the roll of a die. My moods too unpredictable, I gave up on work and threw myself into dance. All I had to do was think about how I had interpreted his emotions. My face, all human faces, they were so openly expressive. There was something so subtly beautiful and intimate about seeing Zenyatta's head tilt a certain way and knowing he was interested in what I was saying, or the way he moved a little slower when he was deep in thought. By studying his motions, playing them over and over like a movie in my head, I started to become an _amazing_ dancer. My teacher was awestruck by my improvement, and I was being offered more important parts. Throwing myself into this new hobby kept my emotions in check. The weeks turned to months, and the pain faded into something that was dull and bearable. I never forgot Zenyatta, but I came to forget that I had been hurt when he didn't return to me. He was a only a fond memory now. I let go of my anger. He didn't deserve it.

By July of that year, all but one of the geisha from Auntie's _okiya_ had either retired or taken up managing their business on their own. We moved the last girl into our _okiya_ and Hanzo sold the property. Together, he and I spent an entire weekend moving kimono from Auntie's storage to our own. It felt strange, to be cutting our ties with that building, but even Auntie would have understood that we couldn't manage two _okiya_. I think she gave him hers because she imagined Hanzo and I would split our assets one day, one brother at each _okiya_ , but both of us knew that would never happen. Hanzo was already investing in other businesses. I think he wanted to get the _okiya_ running itself with minimal interference from him, perhaps under my leadership, although I never admitted to him that I didn't see myself there much longer either. I thought about traveling the world as the Mondatta and Zenyatta had. Maybe I would go and visit the places on those postcards.

After months of very minimal work, in August, I finally dipped my toe back into regular entertainment at the _ochaya_. The whirlwind of fame that had come to me earlier in the year had moved elsewhere, but my name still held a lot of weight, and customers were battling for my time. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was the end of a story somehow. In my heart, I knew – even if I didn't want to admit it – that I didn't have it in me to do this each night anymore. I wanted to dance. Maybe even teach dance, although I had yet to express the interest to my teacher or the school.

One sweltering morning, I was shaken awake by one of the maids. “Genji, please wake up! There is a visitor, and Shimada-san is out on an errand!” I had been entertaining at a party until the early hours of the morning, and I was irritable about being woken up like this. Still, I told her to go and offer our guest something to drink and asked her to put a pot of tea on for me. I didn't have the energy to get into full costume; in the past, I would have forced myself to become Suzume, but that day I pulled on a tshirt and jeans and wandered downstairs, ruffling my hair into place with my fingers.

Kneeling before our low, lacquered table in the parlor was Zenyatta. I was dumbfounded by the sight of him there, inside my _okiya_ , sitting there so serenely as if I had no right to be surprised to see him at all. After all this time, there he was. And me, with my hair a mess, wearing some of my most casual clothes! Was I dreaming? I couldn't even force myself to greet him.

“Genji,” he said, humming with happiness. He pulled himself up to his feet, and I had the urge to fling myself at him and hold him in my arms. I struggled to decide on how to react. I, Genji, would have no idea that Zenyatta had bonded with Suzume, and I would certainly not know that Zenyatta had been here, in the _okiya_ before.

“Z-Zenyatta!” I spluttered, finally finding my voice, “What brings you here? I honestly didn't think I would see you again.”

I plopped onto the tatami across from him, and he knelt back down slowly, his head bent in low, with his mala laying still on his shoulders. For a moment I studied his posture, taking pleasure in the interpretation. I had missed this so much. This was an expression that I couldn't remember seeing him with, though. It gave me the impression of a puppy with his tail between his legs. “I did want to visit sooner,” he said, “But we Shambali have found ourselves thrust into the media's spotlight.”

“Not just the Shambali,” I teased him, “You must have seen the posters all over the airport. You're quite the celebrity here, Zenyatta.”

He put his hand to his face, such a very human gesture of mortification. “Yes, Mondatta found it hilarious.”

“He's here, too?” I asked.

“Very briefly, for business,” he replied, “You may have heard of the organization called Next Step Omnics?”

I shook my head.

“It was founded by a former student of Mondatta's. They work to find or create jobs for Omnics,” he explained, “And they have just purchased an _okiya_ , right here, in Hanamura. I admit that my reasons for volunteering to offer them help may have been selfish in nature.”

I beamed across the table at him. So they had bought our second _okiya?_ What an unbelievable turn of events! “Oh, so you meet a few geisha and you think you know anything about running an _okiya_?”

“I thought my dear friend Miss Suzume would be willing to lend a hand,” he said.

“Well, she isn't here,” I quickly told him, “Not right now, I mean. But I can probably help you, too.”

“We are still in the earliest stages of planning,” he said, “For now, I simply wished to ask you to please keep us in mind if you have any unwanted kimono. Even if they are old and seemingly beyond repair, we would gladly take them as donations."

“ _Donations?”_ I asked, "Not to see me?"

I was serious, but he laughed and reached across the table, resting his hands on my own. “Of course, and to let you know I will be in town for the foreseeable future. In case you felt like spending more time at the arcade?”

“No, I mean... Well, of course I want to go with you, but... _Zenyatta_! You can't come around here asking for donations! My brother would _kill_ you!” I couldn't help but laugh at him, and I flipped my hands over, weaving my fingers into his, “You know what? Come on. Let's do this quickly, and maybe he'll never even know.”

“Now?” he asked.

“Yes, _now_!” I pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of the room, “We have to do it while he's not here. There's no other time.”

I went to the closet in the hallway, digging through the containers full of extra house shoes and coats that smelled of mothballs and some rolled-up spare futons, hoping to find a bag or a box to stuff full of kimono. When I found nothing, I lead Zenyatta to our kitchen, where I found a box in the pantry, full of sacks of rice that had been delivered just a few days before. I shoved the rice to the back of the pantry and thrust the empty box in Zenyatta's arms. I was overcome with a frantic giddiness – I just wanted to do this out of spite for my brother, out of spite for the _okiya_ and the whole world of lies that I had laid out that prevented me from running away to Nepal with Zenyatta.

“There is truly no rush, Genji,” Zenyatta said as I lead him to the garden, towards our storage shed, but I couldn't be dissuaded.

I slid open the shed door and dove into the shelves and boxes. I started with the new ones from Auntie's _okiya_ first, because I knew Hanzo hadn't taken inventory of them yet. I picked out the ones that I didn't like and began to stuff Zenyatta's box with them. Several with patterns that were too busy. One with a bold turqouise and pink zig-zagging design that hurt my eyes. Another that was scarlet and covered in a dizzying display of multicolored dragonflies that spun in circles. A few with motifs that I deemed too obvious, such as winter kimono with snowflakes on them. But who was I, to deny these Omnic women lovely things? We owned more than I would ever wear in a lifetime, and my career was so close to over. These were mine to give, and I would not be selfish. So instead I began to fill the box with stunning kimono from the collection. A delicate pale-green kimono bearing a design of gray stalks of bamboo, accented with pearly white embroidered leaves. One of the palest silvery-white, covered in swirls of rippling blue water, over which hung branches of cherry blossoms just about to fall. A background of black silk, upon which was hand-painted multicolored origami cranes that transformed into real cranes as they flew up the length of the fabric. They were masterpieces, and I stuffed them into the box until it was so full that I couldn't add one single more.

“Next time my brother is gone, you can come back, and I will give you another box more,” I said, “You'll have to get proper storage for all of these. They're fragile.”

“I never imagined such generosity,” Zenyatta admitted, struggling under the weight of the box. I knew I would never be able to carry it in a million years, but, Zenyatta, being made of metal and shocks and machinery, could bear the weight better than I.

Probably no one in the world had called me generous before. At events, I stole the attention from other geisha. My favorite kimono and hair ornaments I never shared, not even in the past when I had been training my own _maiko._ I loved to be showered in gifts but had never given much thought to what I could offer in return. “I'm not generous,” I admitted to him, flashing him a flirtatious smile that I wasn't sure he understood, “I have selfish motives."

At that moment, my hands found the Tale of Genji kimono. I hesitated. Should I give this one to him, as well? “This is my favorite,” I admitted, holding it up to the light for him to see the fine details, “It is a scene from the Tale of Genji, a novel that I believe my mother named me after.”

Zenyatta's machinery hummed pleasantly in my ear as he leaned in to run his robotic fingertips over the sillk. I rest my head against his shoulder, my eyes following his touch. “It is beautiful,” he said, “I wish you had worn this one for the photoshoot.”

“What?”

“The picture that they took of us. I wish you had been wearing this kimono.”

The flood of emotions that filled me from head to toe was too much for me to wade in; I was drowning.

I had to sit down.

I let the kimono fall to the floor of the shed, and I pushed past Zenyatta, stepping outside. It was a cool morning, considering the time of the year. A breeze swept the sweat from my brow and rustled the leaves of the trees. I sat down where I stood, letting my legs hang off the wooden walkway and dangle into the garden below. Zenyatta knew that I was both Genji and Suzume. He had this whole time. I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry or to scream.

“Genji?” Zenyatta set the box down behind us and settled down beside me. “Did I say something wrong?”

I couldn't think of any coherent way to answer, so we just sat there in silence. There was no telling how long this went on, but certainly many long minutes, maybe even a quarter of an hour. To me, it felt like an eternity. I kept hoping he would pick the conversation back up again, but he seemed to be waiting for me to recover. 

“You know,” I finally said.

“Know what, Genji?” I couldn't even answer him. I couldn't even put the words out there, because they sounded so outrageous. After a heavy pause, he seemed to understand. “Oh, Genji... I thought you were playing a game with me. I had been playing along this whole time. Are you angry?”

“No,” I said. I wasn't. Mostly, I was mortified. I buried my face in my hands and gave a miserable moan.

Again, we were silent together for many minutes, although the pause this time was shorter than the last. My whole life, I've been the kind of person to brood and let my emotions torture me. So a part of me, in that moment, felt the best thing was to pretend I was okay and act like nothing had even happened. But then Zenyatta nudged his hand against mine, and when my fingers opened, he laced his fingers between them. He asked me, "Would it make you feel better to talk about it?" And I knew that I had all the power; I could tell him, or I could not, and either way, he was mine. 

"When I met you, it felt like Suzume and Genji were two different people fighting over the same body. Suzume felt like an act I had to keep up, and she was smothering Genji. I resented her," I admitted to him, "But then you came... And Genji and Suzume both liked to be around you. And... you seemed to like being around both of them, too. I realized that I didn't have to pick one or the other if I wanted to belong to you. I could be one or the other or both, depending on how I felt. When you asked me to go with you, I wanted to say yes, but I feared that when you learned I wasn't what I appeared..." 

I felt like I was rambling, and I was afraid of going too far and revealing that I was too attached to him. So I trailed off, and I gave his hand a small squeeze.

"I'm sorry, Genji," he said.

"You probably think I sound insane," I muttered, shaking my head. 

"Not at all," he said, "In the Iris, we are all one - man and woman, old and young, human and Omnic. Our body, whether flesh or metal, is merely a vessel. In many ways, I believe you, in your duality, are closer to the Iris than most people. It is lovely. Do not let anyone make you feel lesser because you are not confined to the physical restraints of your body."

"I would never let anyone make me feel that way," I said, "Are you kidding? Look at who you're talking to!" I could hear his cheerful whirring, like the most wonderful white noise. "Besides," I added, "there is only one person whose opinion I care about, and - "

He jerked his hand out of mine, pressing his fingers to my lips to silence me. "That's you, yes? Your own opinion is all that matters."

I smiled against his fingertips and kissed them, feeling electricity tingle against my lips. "Of course, Zenyatta. My own opinion is the only one that matters."

"Good," he said, replacing his fingertips with his faceplate against my lips, and the electric feeling grew and grew over my skin, until all the hairs on my body stood on end, and I was shivering in pleasure against him, "I am content to be second place." 

 


End file.
